


Wails by the Sea

by SecretWonderland



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Narcissa Black Malfoy, Dark Mark Removal (Harry Potter), Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/F, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Good Slytherins, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry and Draco don't meet until like chapter 7 folks, Kingsley is a dad? Kinda?, M/M, Ocean, Ocean magic, Post-War, Recovery, Sentient Magical Houses (Harry Potter), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Draco Malfoy, Suicidal Thoughts, War Recovery, house rebuilding, this was literally my excuse to mix the sims and harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:48:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29873505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretWonderland/pseuds/SecretWonderland
Summary: If he stays here, in this Manor, in this world, Draco will go mad. Provided he doesn’t kill himself first, and that’s been quite the tempting option since he was fifteen.Or, Draco slowly gets his life back together after sitting around in Azkaban for a few months. He wasn't exactly expecting to be freed, or to live for that matter. Forgive him if he takes a while to get used to the idea, for not letting his friends know that he is, in fact, alive. For not getting in contact with his mother, for not immediately dealing with a wretched bonding curse, his inconsistent mental health, and, of course, not issuing any apologizes after the war.The latter certainly would've helped him when Hermione infects his house with one Harry Potter.Featuring a sassy, plant-loving house elf, Kingsley as everyone's favorite father figure, gossipy shop owners, Draco completely unsure of how he's supposed to deal with a heart broken Harry, Pansy on the verge of several murders, Hermione as a Ministry Mind Healer (read, the one who decides who the Ministry hires), an over emotional Theo, Blaise as the lovely wine aunt, Ron just trying to be a Good Dad, and a weird relationship with the ocean of all things.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood/Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 49
Kudos: 54





	1. Discovering Yellow Brick Road

The first thing Draco does after being released is try to sleep.

He makes a token attempt, lying back in the room he’s called his since he was born, closing his eyes, paying special attention to his breaths, focusing on the feeling of silk sheets against his skin. At some point in the night Draco even finds himself counting sheep, considering breaking his probation and brewing an illegal sleeping potion, because at this point in his life things can’t really get worse.

It’s two in the morning when Draco finally gives in and sits up, eyeing everything in his room.

And, naturally, everything feels wrong. 

Logic has always been his friend. Draco, while he may not be the most  _ astute  _ person, has always been logical. 

But logic rots away in Azkaban. 

It doesn’t stand a chance in the face of the horrors he’s seen, the evil things he’s done. Logic can’t save him from the cold that’s apparently a permanent part of his body now. It can’t help his emotion filled brain that’s overwhelmed by the sight of his room. By his wand, on his bedside table, by the sheets that should’ve been burned, by the trophies that he never really earned, by the Dark Mark that’s forever a part of him now.

As of this moment, all of Draco’s logic is gone. All of his years of studying, all the debates he had with Severus, the infernal  _ need  _ to best Granger, the plans he hatched with Pansy, the long lists of facts he and Blaise made. It’s all gone.

And in its absence, Draco stands.

He grabs one of his bottomless bags, throws everything he might need into it, his most comfortable clothes, his favorite blanket, the key to his private vaults, some odd bits and pieces he can’t function without, a few picture albums, his family ring, all the things that mean  _ something  _ in his wretched nothingness. As soon as the bag is zipped, Draco grabs his wand and aparates to the front gates. 

“Where are you going?”

The quiet voice vibrates from the other side of the fence, making a mockery of the eerie silence that Draco can’t stand.

“It’s nearly two thirty in the morning, Draco.” Kingsley sighs. “If you need to go somewhere-”

“I need to.” Draco whispers.

“Okay….” Kingsley eyes him. 

Draco’s always liked Kingsley. Kingsley is fair, if Draco still had the right to vote he’d be singing Kingsely’s praises to every ear that listened. Kingsley didn’t  _ do  _ what Draco’s other Aurors did. He was always nice. He’d show up to visit every minor in the hell hole that is Azkaban, bring them crosswords, tell them what’s happening outside. He’d bring a ridiculous jaguar patronus that scared the Dementors off, sit as long as he bloody well pleased, and after his visits Draco always felt less….less of what he’s feeling now.

The anxiety. The need to  _ go,  _ to leave, to get as far away from the Manor, from  _ England  _ as his probation will allow. To stop existing from  _ everyone.  _ For the world to just...stop being so quiet that it’s ringing in his ears.

“Where do you need to go?”

“Away.”

“Away? Draco, you know you’re on probation, one wrong move could cost you your life. You know that if you leave the manor-”

“I’m not on house arrest. Mum is, not me. And I- I  _ can’t be here,  _ Kingsley. If I stay I’ll go mad. I don’t care if I have to sleep on the forest floor, just  _ please.  _ Please don’t make me stay here.”

Kingsley raises an eyebrow and Draco doesn't care in the slightest. He knows it’s a right sight. Draco,  _ the  _ Draco Malfoy, is begging. He’s shaking in front of the Head Auror, begging,  _ pleading.  _ He hasn’t bathed since he got back, he’s sure he’s crying at this point, and if eleven year old him could see him now, he’d probably curse him to hell and back.

But none of the matters because Kingsely’s face drops.

“Draco-”

_ “Please.  _ I don’t care what the consequences are, if they kill me it doesn't matter as long as I’m not  _ here  _ when they do it. It’s- it’s not  _ illegal,  _ there’s nothing saying that I can’t go, as long as I report, it won’t matter, right?”

Kingsley gives him a hard, long, brutal look. 

But he unlocks the gates.

He doesn’t stop Draco from stepping out.

He doesn’t say a word when Draco collapses from relief, from the sweet release of the wards leaving him, that feeling of dirt on his soul is nothing in comparison to the fear of breaking his probation. 

Kingsley _does,_ however, reach to help him up. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother will worry.”

“Mum…” Draco swallows, “I’ll write her. She’ll be fine.”

“She loves you, Draco. Surely we both know that.”

Draco doesn't say a word. His arm is starting to tense up, and while Kingsley’s hands have never been harsh, they’re still restricting. They still have the ability to break him.

“Scotland. There’s a semi-abandoned town up there, between Skirtza and the Bay of Sannick, it was left during the war, the Abbot family used to live up there, but when Hannah died everyone fled. The muggle towns aren’t too far, so you’ll be able to get food. It’s still under English Wizarding jurisdiction, so they won’t be able to hurt you for it. I’ll meet you there in a week, see if I can use my sway to be your single probation officer. Do you have your wand?” 

Draco holds it up for him to see it.

“How good are you at wandless magic?”

Draco gives him a look, one that Kingsley is familiar and fond of. One that means there might still be hope for one Draco Malfoy.

“Good, they might snap it so be prepared-”

He’s not sure why he does it, but in one single flick of his fingers a cracking sound vibrates in the forest around them.

It hurts, similar to the Cruciatus, but after everything Draco’s been through, he merely flinches. Something must be wrong with his nerves. Moody, technically Crouch Jr., mentioned something in fourth year about repeated exposure damaging nerve endings. Too bad Draco’s school notes were confiscated as ‘evidence’ and still haven’t returned.

He hands his broken wand over to a wide eyed and wary Kingsley.

“Now they can’t break it when I’m not expecting it, right?”

Kingsley blinks himself into control. “Right...Draco, are you-”

“Yes.” Draco says. His voice hasn’t been louder than a whisper this whole time, but he puts enough conviction behind his words to make sure Kingsley gets the message.

If he stays here, in this Manor, in this  _ world,  _ Draco will go mad. Provided he doesn’t kill himself first, and that’s been quite the tempting option since he was fifteen. 

“Fine.” Kingsley sighs. “I’ll see you in a week.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Draco aparates to the outskirts of a small castle.  _ Abbott Residence, State your purpose  _ appears before him in bright letters that glow in the fog. 

Abbot, like Hannah Abbot. The girl he tried to kill, the girl who was eaten alive by Greyback, right in front of Draco’s horrified eyes.

He turns on his heels and runs.

Fog eats away at the landscape, growing thicker with every step. 

He can’t get it out of his mind. The blood, the screaming, the  _ brutality.  _ The pain of the dungeons because he grieved over his classmate’s dead body.

Draco runs until his body collapses, which leaves him nearly falling off a cliff. By sheer luck he manages to stumble back, fall on his ass, and meet the endless ocean clouded by thick blankets of fog. 

The ocean...is still. 

It’s not quiet, per say, because Draco can hear the calming sounds of the sea, a constant tide filled with who knows what, that goes deeper than anyone imagines, that looks like a black pit blanketed in clouds. If he takes another step, surely he’ll be able to walk on that infinite darkness. 

Surely it would be okay.

Draco stands up, steps forward, and then finds himself walking away. 

He’s not sure where he's going, or what direction he’s headed in, all he really knows is the fog. It smells like fresh rain, like morning dew and salty oceans and for whatever reason Draco likes it. 

His head, in the midst of the fog, feels clearer than it’s been in years.

Eventually he sees something in the distance.

A small abandoned home, about fifty feet from the sea. The fog clears around the area, like it’s welcoming Draco inside. Like it  _ wants  _ Draco here.

But, after years of sneaking around and years of having to know everything he can to survive, Draco doesn't go inside. He takes a long look at the area around him.

There’s a little cobblestone walkway, though the fog is so thick Draco can’t see where it goes. To the left of the house is a garden filled with dying plants and rotted produce, the grass is nearly up to his calf, there’s mud seeping into his shoes, but to the back is a clear view of the ocean. So welcoming, so inviting, so calming to Draco’s emotions, like the tide is beckoning them away, giving them back as something more manageable.

The house itself, while small, is still two stories. Rotten even from the outside, big bay windows nearly falling off stone, the door handle is so dirty it rubs off on his hand as Draco steps inside.

Whatever furniture that was left has been eaten through, covered in dust, or broken beyond repair. There’s not much of it, a broken, singed couch by a fireplace, a table that’s missing a few legs, tattered pillows, memories of a staircase with several missing steps, doors blown off their hinges, all the dust in the near empty room makes him sneeze.

“Hello?”

Draco jumps, immediately reaching for his wand before remembering that he  _ broke the fucking thing.  _ It’s fine, he’ll be fine, he’s good at wandless magic, and if he dies...well, it would mean one less problem for a lot of people.

He looks to his left, following the sound of the voice, fully expecting to finally,  _ finally,  _ meet the end he’s been waiting for. A quick curse to his heart, a stinger to his eye sockets, maybe a quick slitting of his throat.

Instead a small house elf steps out of the shadows and into the moonlit room.

She’s smaller than the smallest house elf at Malfoy Manor, with big black eyes and a ruined dress. In her small, pale, boney hands she clutches a black kitten to her chest, a shirt is wrapped around them like a blanket, though Draco can’t tell the color because it’s so bloody dark.

“You….you is being a wizard?”

Draco nods.

“Have you come to take Misty and Salem away?”

Draco shakes his head.

“Then what is you doing here, if Misty can ask, sir.”

What  _ is  _ he doing here?

He’s running away.  _ Again.  _

But not really, because somethings can’t be run from.

He’s shouldering as much as he can, taking the blame for those closest to him, trying to protect who he can. His mind, once calmed by the ocean, is buzzing again. Filling up with excuses and lies and anything it can think of to face the truth that he can’t say out loud.

Because the truth is that he’s not running away for once.

He’s running to something that will solve everything.

Something that will make the silence stop being so loud, that will free his friends, get his mum out of house arrest, give Kingsley his free time back. Something that will cancel the life depths people are sickened by. Something that will grant him freedom he’s never known.

Draco Malfoy has run here, wherever here may be, to die.

He blinks once, and finds himself no longer at the threshold of a ruined living room, but looking out at the ocean through a broken bay window. From here he can feel the breeze, it seeps into the house from the window in front of them, one that’s beginning to fall off and leave holes in the side of the wall, one with broken glass, one with him and a little elf staring out of it.

“You is coming here because the ocean told you to.” The elf, Misty, tells him. “It called Mistress too, when she was upset, but the bad people came and took her away. Are they going to take you away too, Mister?”

Draco shakes his head. Hard for the bad people to take you if you-

“Are you one of the bad people?”

Draco’s first instinct is to nod, so he does, but that doesn't seem to make the elf happy.

“No you is not. The ocean can tell. You is coming here because you listened to the Magic, sir, and you is not yelling at Misty yet, so you can’t be being bad. Sit, sir, Misty will find tea.”

Draco does as he’s told, sinking down to the floor and staring out into the sea.

When he looks out, his brain quiets. The noise that silence brings fades away into a soothing push and pull. 

Misty returns some time later with a broken cup filled with cold water.

“Misty is being sorry, sir. The house is empty now, and Misty could only find one cup, and the water doesn’t work anymore so Misty be having to go to the well.”

She hands it over and Draco takes a sip. The water hurts his throat, makes the lumps in it more obvious, it’s hard to swallow so Draco hands it back. The elf is skinnier than him anyways, and if he’s going to die, he’d rather her live as long as possible. He once read that water makes up seventy percent of human bodies, he wonders if it’s the same for elves. 

Misty watches him with wide eyes, not taking the cup at all, so Draco gently grabs her hand and forces the cup into her fingers.

“Misty can be having water?”

Draco nearly flinches at the question. A month ago he was asking the same thing, tucked away in his cell, surrounded by hoodies figures and manic laughter, begging anyone, even the devil himself for something to drink. His throat had been so dry, he’d never wanted anything like he wanted water in his cell. And here he is, denying the first glass that’s being offered to him.

Draco nods.

Misty drinks. She carefully sets the sleeping cat down in front of them, sitting next to Draco.

They look out to the ocean, pulled in by the push.

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Misty, as it turns out, has lived a hard life. 

She chatters away at him, not minding that he doesn’t talk much. The only thing he’s managed to say to her is his name, and even that resulted in him staring out into the sea, watching it wave from dawn until dusk until he felt calm enough to sit again.

They spend their time in front of a broken window. Misty tells him about her life, how she once called the ocean her home until she met her first family that worked her until she nearly died. She says she’s lucky that her previous Mistress found her, Draco thinks so too. Misty brings him water and little berries on the verge of rotting from the garden. They eat together, sharing the same broken cup, while Misty chatters on about her previous family, about the Abbots, about the nice people that once filled the area. 

Her last owners were purebloods, like him, but, unlike him, they were kind. The Mister, Garon if Draco’s been listening right, was obsessed with muggle plants, always researching how he could mix muggle plants with wizard plants to create something new, even though it always failed. The Mistress, Emilia, was a recluse. She spent time down by the water, made her money through selling potions even though she apparently had a trust fund so big Misty couldn’t count it all. 

They had a daughter. Her name was Alexandra, and she was Misty’s best friend. They got up to all sorts of trouble, but no one ever stopped them. Apparently when she was five, Alexandra brought home a pregnant cat, all three of the wizards were killed before the kittens were born, and little Salem is the only one that survived.

Salem, the little black Kneazle, is only a month old. So tiny and small, always seeking comfort. On the second day in the run down cottage, Draco had taken his blanket out and the kitten immediately curled up in his lap.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, eating berries, ignoring the cuts on his lip from the broken glass, listening to Misty talk enough for the both of them, occasionally petting Salem and staring out into the sea.

All he knows is that one second his brain is calming, Misty is telling him about Monsteras, Salem is asleep in his lap, and then the door bangs open.

Misty jumps to her feet, Salem startles, and Draco can’t bring himself to deal with it.

Whoever it is will either force him out, sit with him like Misty, or (if he’s lucky) kill him on the spot.

“Draco?”

_ Fuck.  _

Looks like a week has passed by already.

Misty looks between Kingsley, who’s walking into the room rather quietly for someone who always wears dragon hide boots, and Draco, who refuses to look away from the sea.

Kingsley pauses. “You are?”

“I is being Misty.” Misty says, bowing a little but not leaving Draco’s side. “Are you being a friend to Mister Draco?”

“Yes. I am, would you mind-”

“Let her stay.” Draco croaks out. His voice sounds  _ awful.  _ He’s sure he sounded better in Azkaban. “It’s her house, Kingsley, she’s just been kind enough to not kick me out.”

“I would never! If Misty be kicking out Mister Draco, Misty would be losing her precious company.” Draco sees her glare up at Kingsley from the corner of his eyes, “Misty be bringing water if Mister Draco’s friend be  _ promising  _ not to take him away.”

“I promise.”

It irks him that Kingsley seems so amused, but Misty leaving him annoys him even more.

Kingsley sits next to him, the smell of the ocean mixes with sandalwood.

“You’ve made a friend, I have to say that’s more than I was hoping for, but dear Merlin, Draco, have you been eating at all?”

“There’s berries in the garden.”

“The  _ rotted  _ garden, you mean.”

Draco doesn't respond.

Kingsley sighs. “I didn’t tell you about this place so you could wither away here. You’re  _ seventeen,  _ Draco, you’re far too young to die.”

“No one else was.” Draco whispers. “Alexandra was five when they came here and killed her.”

Kingsley doesn’t comment on the new name, or the fact that Draco has a black kitten asleep on him, but Draco can feel him looking. Feel him staring at the eyebags that have probably gotten worse, hollow cheeks, a sagging spine. He must look like Death by now, maybe that’s why the damn creature hasn’t come for him yet.

“Your mother is worried for you.”

Draco closes his eyes.

“She’s raving right now, burned the Manor down and everything. In light of the event and her efforts to help us in the war I got her off house arrest. She’s gone to her villa in France, asked me to give you this.”

A letter appears on his left thigh. Draco recoils like it’s burned him.

“Still don’t want to go back?”

“Never.” Draco spits.

“Then I’m going to make you a deal.”

Draco opens his eyes, finally looking away from the window to judge how serious Kingsley is being. 

“Clean this place up. Stop rotting away here, for Merlin’s sake you’re covered in dust and starving. Start making a life, I don’t care if you start brewing, or even if you get a new wand, but you’re going to stop killing yourself, do you understand me? You weren’t let go so you could die covered in dust.”

“And how do you expect me to do that? I don’t have any money-”

“That’s a lie. I know you took the key to your vaults when you left. I’ll have Gringotts transfer the money over to Obsidian, you know the Goblins don’t care about wizard crimes.”

“But people will recognize me-”

“It’s  _ Scotland,  _ Draco. No one gives a shit, everyone here minds their own business for the most part. If you’re that worried use a glamor.”

“I can’t do something that complicated without a wand-”

“Then go get one! Grishom’s is just as good as Olivander’s! There is nothing stopping you but your damn self!”

Draco’s mouth snaps shut. Kingsley sighs again, running a hand over his bald head.

“Draco, you’re still a kid. You’ve been through horrifying things, and I get it, you feel guilty, but the people you care about don’t want you to die for it.”

Draco wants to beg to differ, wants to rant and rage and let Kingsley have a piece of his fucking mind, but he says nothing.

So, after a moment, Kingsley pats his arm and stands. “I’ll be back on Sunday to see the results, if you haven’t moved from that spot I’m forcing you back to the Manor.”

Draco keeps his eyes on the sea.

Kingsley sighs for a third time, must be a new record. “Sunday, Draco. I mean it. Tell Misty it was lovely to meet her.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Leaving Draco almost completely alone with the sea.

  
  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  


Misty is far more freaked out than Draco is about Kingsley’s warning, but because she’s having a fit, Draco finally moves from his spot in the living room, joining her in what was once a kitchen.

There’s a ghastly hole where a bay window finally gave out, the appliances are so dirty Draco can't tell what color they’re meant to be, and the sink has managed to fall through rotted wood to the bottom of a broken counter.

Misty passes him their water cup.

“We must be doing something, Mister Draco.”

Draco shrugs, thankful once again that Misty never forces him to talk.

“Don’t be shrugging at me! If-if you’re gone Misty will be alone again, and Misty….Misty can’t survive like that. We  _ must  _ be cleaning up the house, so we  _ must  _ be getting you a wand.”

“I thought elf magic was better than Wizard Magic.” Draco croaks out.

He’s secretly pleased by the big smile Misty has whenever he does manage a few words.

“Elf magic is being better, sir.” Misty rolls her eyes, “But Misty is not bound to any magic, the ocean would accept Misty, but only with Mistress’s spell, and Misty cannot be reading wizard’s books, so Mister Draco must be getting a wand and helping Misty. It’s the least he can be doing if he’s planning on  _ abandoning  _ her.”

They’ve only known each other for a week and she’s already good at guilt tripping him. Partly because Draco really doesn’t care one way or the other, but he does like making Misty smile, so he sighs in defeat, hiding a grin when Misty rushes up the broken stair case and returns with a dingy old coat that’s covered in soot but will at least manage to hide most of Draco’s frame.

Draco rolls his eyes at her antics, making his way back to the living room and reaching into his bag for clothes that  _ won’t  _ offend the goblins.

They don’t take well to anything related to fire after the whole Dragon Incident.

He cleans himself up with a wandless, wordless _ scourgify _ , sure to do the same to his mouth because goblins hate bad breath. For the first time in his life Draco feels lucky to be a late sleeper. Years of waking up with only minutes to get to class help with rushed, wandless magic, and years of having Transfiguration as his first class made him  _ obscenely  _ good at this spell. McGonagll never liked it when he suddenly appeared cleaner than he was upon arrival, but she never said anything. 

He wonders if she’s okay.

He wonders if she lived after Voldemort’s  _ crucio  _ to her heart.

He tugs on his softest pair of pants, the grey slacks that Pansy made him his final year at Hogwarts. The ones that feel like silk and look like the usual stuffy business shit he was forced to wear.

He thinks about Pansy’s smile that day, thinks about healing her hands the weeks before Christmas and wondering what the hell she’d been doing.

And now he’s here, half naked in a dying house, wondering if she’d still smile at him after everything. If she managed to make it to Japan, if she was caught, or if she was-

“Mister Draco? You is being shirtless-” Misty gasps. 

Their shared water cup falls to the floor, shattering and spewing more filth. As the dust settles around them, Draco realizes she’s staring at him.

But which thing is she staring at?

Is it the Dark Mark? The scars from Potter’s  _ sectumsempra?  _ Maybe the bruises he still has from Azkaban? The whip marks that coil around his back and onto his sides? 

There’s a world of possibilities.

“You is being too thin, Mister Draco.” Misty whispers.

And Draco’s not prepared to hear her say that.

He, against his will, barks out a quiet, shaky, almost insane sounding laugh. And then he can’t stop. Because this elf, the pure sweet little elf, the one who let him stay in her home, who sat with him for an entire week, making him eat, sharing water, who’s been so  _ painstakingly kind  _ is  _ worried  _ about his weight. 

Even with his Dark Mark and his scars all bared for her to see.

“It is not being funny, Mister Draco!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Draco wheezes, “I just- of all the things- for Merlin’s sake, Misty, can’t you see it?” Draco holds out his arm, hoping that maybe she’ll send him away. Let the ocean swallow him whole. “I’m  _ one of them.  _ I was a part of the group that took  _ everything  _ from you! And you- you’re  _ worried about my weight?  _ Don’t you find that a little ironic?”

Misty’s eyes widen at the sight of the Mark. She blinks once, then twice, as though she’s preparing herself for something. Then, to his absolute shock, Misty takes a step forward.

“Mister Draco is not being bad.” She whispers. “Mister Draco is being  _ hurt.  _ Mister Draco’s friend be saying Mister Draco is only seventeen, that he’s been through too many icky things, that he is having no friends and that he is scared to be going back. Mister Draco let’s Misty drink from his cup, Mister Draco sits with Misty and lets Misty talk, even though Misty talks too much and it annoys Salem. Mister Draco is  _ not being bad.  _ Mister Draco is being  _ hurt.  _ And Misty will be being hurt without Mister Draco, evil mark or not.”

Draco looks into big black eyes, his arm still out stretched. He jolts a little when Misty takes his hand.

“Misty is not doing well with the alone.” She says, like it’s some sort of big secret. “Mister Draco be saving Misty from dying with madness, and Misty will be saving Mister Draco from the madness too.”

Draco blinks at her. Tears welt up in his eyes, even though he hasn’t cried since he was sixteen and watching Albus Dumbledore fall off the Astronomy Tower. He doesn't know what possesses him to do it, but he falls to his knees and hugs her tight.

He wonders if her previous owners ever hugged her.

He hopes it’s okay.

She pats his back with her tiny bony hands, lets him cry all over her little dress, only slightly less tattered than the one she was wearing the first day they met. 

“Mister Draco be needing a shirt.” She says once he’s finally calmed down.

He fumbles around in his bag for a bit, not looking her in the eyes, and pulls out the blue sweater Blaise used to make fun of him for.

He resolutely does not think about his friend. 

His mind is too empty for that right now.

Misty goes over some sort of checklist that he doesn't pay attention to. She disappears for a second, hopping over the broken stair case in a dress that miraculously doesn’t have a single tear in it. She makes sure he has his bag tucked into the pocket of his pants, frowns at his dirty shoes that can’t really be fixed now, and then holds out her hand.

They say goodbye to Salem, and two seconds later Draco finds himself in the middle of a busy wizard’s street.

It all comes back too fast. 

His brain can’t handle it, the noise, the people. It’s Diagon Alley all over again, it’s Olivander’s shop being blown into pieces, it’s Dark Lord propaganda, it’s shoving shop owners to their feet, it’s killing blokes when no one is looking, it’s all happening right in front of him and he’s stuck all over again, not being able to do a  _ single damn thing- _

“Mister Draco! It’s the flower shop Master Garon liked!”

Draco blinks.

Sure enough there’s a plant shop, mandrake leaves and dancing bells swinging in the window.

A flower shop that’s completely intact, Draco can see a worker in an apron watering a baby wiggentree. Next to it is a bakery, and next to that a small green wand shop. Draco takes in the sights, the happy blue apothecary, the yellow tea shop, the people in the street chatting happily, not giving a damn about him.

Draco breathes out.

“We...we can visit it after we hit Obsidian?”

Misty beams at him.

Obsidian, like all goblin banks, is impersonal and filled to the brim with little creatures who raise their eyebrows at him, but otherwise say nothing.

With Misty practically pushing him forward, Draco makes his way to the front of the bank. He looks back at her, debating on running out the door and how fast it would be before security stopped him.

And then the goblin in front of them clears his throat.

Draco snaps his head back to see a very impressive unimpressed glare.

“How can we assist you?” 

_ Fuck.  _ They are doing this, then.

He takes a step closer to the desk, sealing his fate. “My name is Draco Malfoy and-”

The goblin is out of his seat before Draco can say another word. “Follow me.”

Well, it was nice while it lasted. Misty follows him and the goblin to the private meeting rooms, which might be a mistake because this is surely it. He’s about to be shipped back to the Ministry, thrown in Azkaban, and there won’t be a single damn thing Kingsley or Potter can do about it. On the plus side, maybe he can pester the Dementors into giving him a kiss once he’s back in his cell.

But that would mean Misty being alone again.

He could always pawn her off on his mother. She’s always been a fan of the mouthy elves, Dobby was her favorite until Lucius, the idiot, freed him. Draco grimances at the thought of his father, but before his head can take a darker route the doors open and Draco’s jaw drops.

“G-Griphook?”

“Master Draco!”

“You’re alive? I thought Bellatrix-”

“She tried,” Griphook offers him a nasty smile, it’s more of a snarl, but the goblins have never been good with facial expressions. “Nearly got me in the end, but I managed to get away.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Gringotts?”

Griphook frowns, meaning he’s really giving Draco a death glare. 

“I can’t be there, unfortunately, too many bad memories, which I’m sure is the reason for our meeting. Finally got out of that ol’ Manor, huh?”

Draco nods, then realizes that Misty has been watching with wide eyes the entire time. “Oh, Griphook, this is Misty, a, um, friend. Misty, this is Griphook. He’s been my financial advisor since I was nine.”

“More like your financial slave.” Griphook mutters, “Your investments were always better than your father’s, made Gringotts millions over the years.” He turns to Misty, eying her with respect that goblins typically have for magical creatures that aren’t wizards, “You, Miss Misty, have found yourself in the company of a Goblin Friend. There isn’t much we wouldn’t do for Draco here, not after all he’s done for us.”

“A Goblin Friend?” Misty gives him an awed sort of look. It makes Draco uncomfortable. “Mister Draco, you really are amazing.”

“Bloody fucking-” Draco sighs. “Griphook, if I’m here and you’re here, I’m assuming you know that business is about to happen.”

Griphook flashes him that nasty smile again, full of sharp teeth coated in yellow. 

Business is easy for Draco. His whole life has been business. He can strike a deal faster than his mind can shut down, and these days that’s damn impressive. Especially with his title that he accidentally got when he was ten, with one fateful investment in the upcoming Firebolt. He’s still a little pissed that Potter got one before he did, afterall, he was the one who invested in the company so they could get up and running, and his father sneered at him and beat him for something so stupid, refusing to let him get the damn broom his money paid for.

At least it made him something.

Between that and the trust fund Draco’s been adding to since he was sixteen and realized he might have to flee his home, he should be covered for about a year.

If he doesn’t find a home for Misty and Salem so he can pitch himself off a cliff, that is.

They leave Obsidian with one of the new ‘cards’ that’s basically like having all his money in one tiny rectangle, and Draco starts feeling something like hope again.

It’s a horrible feeling. 

The last time he had it was when Potter jumped down from Hagrid’s arms, and that action ended him in Azkaban. Not that he didn’t deserve it. If he had his way he’d be back in his cell, puckering up and hoping one of the Dementors felt a little frisky. 

Instead he finds himself shaking in a flower shop, Misty dragging him all over the place.

It doesn’t make sense to buy plants, they can barely step in the front door without the little cottage falling apart, but Draco buys a wiggentree and a lavender bush anyways.

Misty is practically bursting at the seams, but she still forces Draco into the wand shop, despite his many,  _ many,  _ protests.

“Misty, I do  _ not  _ need a new wand!”

“Mister Draco is a wizard and wizards be needing wands!”

“I don’t want-”

“A new wand?”

Draco swallows, fully expecting to see Olivander, to remember his face when the Dark Lord- it’s a kid.

Why is a kid behind the counter of a wand shop? 

What the fuck?

“You did say something about a new wand, right?” The kid asks. He reminds Draco of Theo, with big brown eyes, wavy brown hair. The only difference is the kid’s freckles. 

Draco takes a breath, but Misty beats him to it.

“Yes sir! Mister Draco’s wand be being broken and he be needing a new one!”

The kid looks between Misty and Draco, amusement written all over his little freckled face, so Draco sighs, nodding his (unwilling) consent.

“Cool! Gimme one second,” He says to them, then turns his head to the back of the store, “Dad! We’ve got a mature wand!”

There’s some grumbling and fumbling around, and then a much older version of the kids steps out. 

“Did ya lose it? Be honest.” He says to Draco.

Draco shakes his head.

“What happened to it?”

Draco sighs. “It snapped.”

“Bloody reckless teenagers.” The man sighs.

Draco feels like he should be offended, but he’s been called much worse and the man is definitely right in this case. 

After a few more questions the man nods and comes back with three wands, none of them work for Draco, so they end up going through  _ several  _ boxes. It’s a little embarrassing, having to try so many, he found his first wand on the first try.

Eventually the man grumbles something, heads to the back, and reappears with a slim purple box.

“Try this one. It’s thirteen inches, Willow wood with Horned Serpent horn core, ’ve only just gotten it in from the States.”

Draco frowns at the possibility of having an  _ American  _ wand, and then the wand slips into his hand and it feels….right.

Like all the noise that Draco can’t stand from the busy street is gone. 

It reminds Draco of the ocean.

“Well? What ‘re you waiting on?”

Draco flicks it at the desk, ruffling papers with a nonverbal wind charm. He floats the boxes of wands that didn’t work for him back into place, he even points it at himself, casting a nonverbal calming spell that settles around him like his favorite blanket.

“Alright, alright, no need to show off.” The kid mumbles.

“Ah, hogwash, Willie, let ‘m have his fun. ‘S not easy being without a wand when ya already gotten one.”

The kid glares. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”

“Nope.” The man smiles, “Come on, sir, let’s get ya paid for.”

They walk back to the desk, Misty on his heels to make sure he actually pays for it. In all honesty, he’s not sure he could resist if he wanted to. Part of him doesn’t think the wand will let him. He can already feel his magic merging with it, humming through the willow wood, like it’s singing through whatever the hell a Horned Serpent Horn is, Draco will look it up when he gets home.

Draco blinks, staring hard at the counter as the man swipes his card.

Home?

The rundown cottage? With rotting floorboards and holes in the walls? 

He didn’t come here to find a  _ home,  _ he came here to find death, what in the ever loving fuck is he thinking-

“Mister Draco, we should be heading to the store now, sir. We be needing cleaning supplies and foods.”

Draco lets her drag him along, mind still reeling as he pays for things he doesn’t look at, completely letting Misty take control of the situation. 

He apparatus them back to the  _ cottage,  _ the one that is  _ not  _ his home, and starts mindlessly helping Misty put away the non perishable items she got because the fridge apparently doesn't work either. Which makes sense, now that Draco thinks about it. With how broken everything is, there isn’t a way in hell that the power works.

After they finish putting things away in the one cabinet that isn’t broken, Misty drags him down a hallway he didn’t know existed into what appears to be the only unruined room in the entire house.

Not that it isn’t trashed.

What was once a great library lays in tatters, books thrown about, chairs broken and filled with cobwebs. It smells like mold and mildew, but Misty charges in, grabs one of the few books that are still on the mostly empty shelves, and forces it into his hand.

“This is being Mistress’s book! Misty is unsure of the page number, but it’s the one Mistress used to tie Misty to the sea!”

Draco gives her a half hearted look, but he skims through the book anyways.

It’s about binding,  _ ew.  _

But, apart from all the ways magical people can be forced into marriage, Draco does note some interesting things. Binding a rude person to a room, binding a wand to return to a caster’s hand, and in the back, dogeared in the rudest way possible, is a section on house elf binding, with little notes in the margins.

The notes Draco can forgive, but the crease on the page from being dogeared gets a harsh glare.

Clearly this took a bit of planning. 

From the margins, the underlined bits, and the general warnings, Draco starts to understand why a wand is needed. Firstly, the spell has to be done under the light of the full moon while the ocean is at high tide, there’s a bit of blood that has to be dropped into the sea, there must be three firelights hanging around the elf being bound, and the spell only lasts for ten years.

In other words, this is a whole lot of work to bind an elf to the ocean. At the rate they’re going, Draco might as well bind her to him and call it a day.

But that means taking away part of Misty’s freedom, and that is something Draco can’t bring himself to do.

“Misty...do you know when the next full moon is?”

“It’s being in two days, Mister Draco.”

“Great, we’ll do the ritual then.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  


Draco somehow finds himself roped into the house cleaning that Misty  _ refuses  _ to put a pin in. He doesn't understand why they can’t just...wait to do it. Kingsley will be happy that he got dressed, and getting a new wand  _ and  _ food is more than enough to please his favorite pain in the ass, but Misty insists, so Draco spends the afternoon spelling away dust, getting used to his new wand while she tinkers with the power box. 

It’s not that bad until he steps on rotten wood that caves in, leaving most of his right leg in the floorboard. 

“We be needing to do the floors today,” Misty sighs, picking up Salem so he doesn't fall and break his little cat neck.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

Draco sighs, but his foot is literally in a hole so he tugs himself upright and fixes his wand on the broken floor. Misty takes him back to the Wizard Area, he’s really got to learn the name, and somehow, he doesn't know how she’s done it, they find themselves in a magical hardware store, looking at floor panels.

“If it’s vinyl wood it’ll be cheaper.”

“Mister Draco is being rich!”

“Misty-”

“Mister Draco should be choosing the floor he likes best!”

Draco sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today, then casts a glance at the light, beautifully stained, rustic and shiny birch flooring again. It’s five gallons more than the panels, but it, like his new wand and hugging Misty, just feels right, so he asks how many square feet are in the house and resigns himself to getting some white tiling with black flowers for one of the four bathrooms that apparently exist. Draco’s kinda happy to know they’re there, even if they aren’t working. He’s gotten sick of vanishing his...needs.

Misty has the foresight to grab some magical mold and mildew cleaner, and then drags Draco over the paint aisle where he stops her because he might have been coerced into doing the floors of the house today, but he can’t even get to all the rooms because of the damn stairs, and that somehow ends with him paying for a new staircase as well.

They surprisingly haven’t made a dent in his bank account, yet. If Draco keeps letting her go wild they might end up being in trouble.

He hates that he loves the floor. The instructions come with a simple spell that Draco mummers, surprised to see the old ruined panels popping out of place to make room for the  _ real  _ wooden ones. Broken bits of furniture move around to accommodate the boards, even though one of them gets stuck on that stupid fucking broken ass couch that Draco considers burning. 

Misty  _ insists  _ on dealing with the mold and mildew before Draco puts down any more flooring, so Draco follows her from room to room, watching as she sprays the vanishing cans and waiting for the last traces of purple air to leave before he’s allowed to put down floors.

It at least gives him a better idea of the house.

From the foyer he can see straight into the living room, which looks  _ so  _ much better with the new beautifully wooden, lovely birch, perfectly stained floors. It does, admittedly, look weird with all the holes in the walls, so Draco discreetly casts a few  _ repairos  _ when Misty isn’t looking. 

To the left of the foyer is a hallway and the door arch to the kitchen that they’re probably going to have to completely redo, Misty says she’s rather just vanish everything but the one cabinet they’re using, so Draco adds it to the things he’ll probably be dragged into. Past the kitchen is a broken down office and a sunroom filled with dead plants and a broken window that’s left glass all over the floor. Misty looks extremely sad in this room, so Draco summons the two plants he got today, vanishes the old ones, waits for the purple smoke to clear, sets the wood and places the plants down.

“We can get more tomorrow.” He tells her, just to make her smile again because quite frankly, if Misty stops smiling the world will probably end. 

She drags him back through the kitchen, past the living room and the stupid fucking broken stair case, and they repeat the process of holding their noses through purple smoke in the hallways, the library, the first bathroom that Draco nearly cries over, a small room that Misty only lets Draco peek into, and finally to a room with an iron door.

“Ah! Misty doesn’t know if wood will be being good for that room, Mister Draco.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s being Mistress’s Potions lab.”

“A potion’s lab?” Draco whispers. 

He turns the door slowly and it all comes flooding back to him.

Going over to Severus’s house, stirring in one of his godfather’s many cauldrons, collecting samples and testing new potions behind his parent’s back. Late nights bent over steam, Severus pulling him back and complaining about him not being careful. Falling asleep watching Severus work, smiling at him on the first day of potion’s class, sneaking his way into the labs when he was having trouble with something, only for Severus to find him, sigh, and then assist in whatever Draco decided to brew.

Severus, his wonderful godfather. The one who patched him up when Lucius got mad, the one who tried so hard to protect him, to  _ save  _ him. The one who did all of Draco’s dirty work, only for him to die alone, killed by his own master.

Misty takes his hand, drawing him out of his mind and into the ruined room in front of him.

The entire back wall is gone, potions ingredients that have spoiled all over the floor, broken bottles that liter shelves with dried substances. The only intact thing seems to be the collection of cauldrons that reminds Draco too much of Severus for him to handle. 

Misty quietly pulls him out of the room. “We be working on the lab tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Draco whispers back.

He doesn’t even complain when she tells him that, in order to deal with the mess upstairs, they have to put in the new staircase today.

Well, he doesn't complain until he sees the staircase. It’s  _ iron _ , and if that isn't bad enough, he’d unknowingly let Misty pick a  _ spiral staircase.  _

Draco groans. “Really, Misty?”

“The iron has antirust charms! The steps have anti-trip magic! And the flowers are being pretty! And the spirals are difficult for Mister Draco to be throwing himself off of!”

Draco frowns at that last comment, though he does vaguely recall mentioning how convenient a ‘fall’ down the stairs would be. Like the flooring, the stairs come with a simple spell to remove the old one and pop the new one right in. For a brief second Draco’s worried the house might collapse without the stairs holding it up, but then the spiral is on the ground, quickly shooting up with direction from Draco’s wand, and he hates how good it looks.

Misty, he’s learning that she’s usually right, has done it again. 

Sure, it’s  _ iron,  _ but it looks  _ so fucking good  _ against his lovely floors, the delicate handles curve in the prettiest way, and the ‘walls’ are made of iron flower sculptures that dance all the way up.

He only has a second to admire it before Misty is dragging him up, not even letting him appreciate how smooth the railing is on his hand.

All his happy thoughts disappear when he gets a good look at the upstairs landing.

“Misty….how the hell have you been getting around up here?”

There are so many holes. So many it’s more holes than it is floor and Draco can feel a headache building. He looks down at Misty, who’s smiling like this is perfectly normal.

“I jump!”

“You- you  _ jump?!” _

“Yep! But Misty won’t have to be jumping with Mister Draco repairing!”

Draco halfway wants to throttle her for being so reckless, but to be that upset would require him to acknowledge his emotions, and if he acknowledges one of them the rest will come out and he isn’t quite ready for that so he holds his breath, and his tongue, waits for the smoke to leave, and then sets the floor so Misty won’t accidentally kill herself.

There’s only room for one suicidal magical creature in this house, and it’s going to be  _ him. _

Misty leads him through the rooms, on the left is an open sitting area, just big enough to overlap with the kitchen downstairs. The master bedroom and bathroom is in front of it, and Draco tries really, really,  _ really  _ hard not to imagine the happy, loving,  _ kind  _ couple that used to occupy it as he sets the floor in the room.

A little ways down, over the rest of the down stairs, are two guestrooms with an adjoining bathroom. At the end of the hall is a child’s bedroom, and Draco can’t stop himself from picturing little Alexandra playing with toys, laughing at bubbles, and being  _ alive.  _ He almost drops his wand, bolting as soon as the wood is in place. 

When they’re finally,  _ finally,  _ done, Draco lies back on the floor of the living room, welcoming Salem out of hiding and into his arms. The kneazle kitten has just settled down for a nap on his chest when Misty comes into the room, a piece of parchment and a half broken quill in her hands.

“Mister Draco should be making a list!”

“For what?”

“Tomorrow!”

Draco raises an eyebrow at her, pleased when she understands that he’s asking a question and not being mean.

She goes on to tell him that since they’ve promised to do so many things ‘tomorrow’ that a list is necessary so they don’t forget, which means she will most definitely be holding Draco to every single promise and Draco kinda wishes he’d pitched himself off the cliff on his first day in Scotland.

He’s trying to fall asleep to her rambling when she gasps loud enough to wake up Salem.

“We be forgetting the wards!”

“Oh absolutely not. We’re adding that to the Tomorrow list! I’ve used up too much magic today and this wand isn’t quite used to me yet, so something that big is going to have to wait.”

“But  _ Mister Draco!  _ We be needing protection!”

“No!” Draco snaps, and then immediately feels guilty when Misty’s eyes widen with hurt. “I’m sorry,” he rushes out, “I didn’t mean to snap at you, I’m just tired, and I wasn’t lying when I said I used up a lot of magic today, I promise I didn’t mean to be rude-”

“It’s being okay!”

Draco freezes.

“Mister Draco did do lots for a wizard who hasn’t used magic in a long time! He being setting the floors, and the stairs, and fixing the holes in the walls, vanishing the dead plants,  _ and  _ Misty made him go out today, but Mister Draco, Misty thinks it’s being good for you!”

Draco blinks. “Good for me?”

“Yep!” She plops down next him, lying back on the floor so their heads are side by side. “When Mister Draco got here he wouldn’t say a word, but ever since Mister Draco’s friend be coming, Mister Draco be saying  _ whole sentences!  _ He be cleaning himself, and going out, and the more he be cleaning and going out the more he be talking, and talking is good, Mister Draco. Mistress always was saying that not talking about things is being bad, because that’s when the things get you! And Misty be  _ promising  _ Mister Draco to save him from the bad ol’ hurt, even if Misty did make Mister Draco do the things he didn’t wanna do.”

She turns those big black eyes on him and Draco knows that whatever she’s about to say is going to rattle him to his very core.

“Misty be overstepping boundaries today, Mister Draco, and she is being sorry but the boundaries needed to be overstepped. Misty is selfish, and Misty likes having Mister Draco here, so if Mister Draco chooses the floors and helps the house, it’s like he’s choosing and helping Misty too.”

Draco takes her little hand in his, careful not to move Salem, and tries very hard not to cry.

If a few tears leak out, Misty is kind enough not to say anything.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


He’s not sure how he manages it, but he ends up talking Misty out of going into town. She still makes him get up before noon and start on the wards. 

Setting wards is a lot like sewing, something that Pansy drilled into him. Pansy taught him how to set thread, how to make the correct stitches, how to press seams and mend frayed edges. She was the one who taught him to ward when it started getting scary in fourth year. 

Back when the Dark Lord was a thing of the past, when their biggest worry was a wayward Auror that seemed to hate them more than anyone else. They’d spent so many nights in the library, he and Blaise listening to every word she said. Trying it out on their beds, their trunks, even their side of the room. 

Draco tries not to think about them while he works. 

Tries not to remember how annoyed Blaise got when the wards dropped. How Pansy laughed in their faces. How they both squealed when Draco  _ finally  _ got a good one up. 

He tries not to think about Blaise’s laugh and Pansy’s smile. About his mother’s exasperated sighs and his godfather's hidden humor. 

He tries. 

And he miserably fails. 

He’s so caught up in his own emotions that he doesn’t notice his spell work. 

“Mister Draco! You be being out here for  _ hours  _ and the wards still not being there?” 

Draco blinks. 

The wards aren’t there?

He’s been pouring himself into this for  _ hours.  _ Putting as much magic as he can behind it for  _ nothing.  _ What the fuck?

“What do you mean they’re not there?”

“They is being absent.” Misty tells him like that clears everything up. 

Draco curses, pointing his wand at the area in front of him, fully intending on destroying everything if the wards won’t work with him, but then a breeze from the sea pushes him and Misty back. Like the ocean is telling him off. Like it’s saying that he  _ absolutely will not  _ be doing any sort of destroying today. 

Misty tugs on his hand. “The ocean is telling Mister Draco to stop, so Mister Draco should be stopping.”

“The ocean is rude.” Draco huffs. 

In response the sea blows wind through his hair. Not that he really cares. His hair is a lost cause at this point. After Azkaban he’d given up on the matted tuffs, the frayed ends, and the lost shine. Thankfully there are no good mirrors in this stupid fucking house. 

There is, however, Misty, who’s dragging him inside. 

“We be needing breakfast!” 

“I already had breakfast.”

“Water doesn’t count, Mister Draco.”

They end up slurping down fruits out of cans since all the utensils have gone missing, and then Misty insists that Draco take a nap so he’s ready for tonight. 

When he wakes the moon is high in the sky, a  _ tempus _ tells him it’s only eleven thirty, the ocean won’t be at high tide until midnight, but Misty is nervous so he lugs himself off the floor and leads her to the cliff. 

He could step. 

Infinite darkness stares back at him, coated a navy in the areas around the moon’s reflection. 

He could take ten steps and fall. The ocean would embrace him. He could be  _ free.  _

Winds from the sea push him back, he takes out his wand. 

All in all, ritualistic magic isn’t hard to perform after the many times he’s done it. There was the time when he and his friends needed protection from Lupin's transformations, the whole binding himself to the Dark Lord, followed by being bound to that silly ‘Kill Dumbledore’ task, which lead to him being bound to Pansy and Blaise for a year, protection from Greyback, and, most recently, binding himself to the Ministry as a convicted criminal until his probation is up.

Binding an elf to the sea shouldn’t be  _ too  _ hard.

He makes her stand in the clearing, as close to the edge as he can stand. She swears that she’s fine, that there are stairs leading down to a small beach area that will catch her if all else fails, but the stairs are more broken than the ones inside had been and Draco isn’t fucking risking it. He casts three perfect fireballs to surround her, cuts her hand and tells her to wait for his mark.

While she’s fidgeting and trying not to drop any blood, Draco counts down with his  _ tempus,  _ idly keeping an eye on Salem, who’s deemed this interesting enough to watch.

As soon as the timer in the air hits midnight, Draco feels the rush of the sea, the pull of the tide, like the ocean is filling him to the brim with all of her majesty.

“Misty, three drops into the ocean,  _ now.” _

She jolts at his words, quickly leaning over and doing what she’s told.

Draco chats the spell he’s memorized, a lengthy paragraph but nothing compared to the poems he used to recite for his mother’s pureblood circles.

When the final word is uttered Draco watches blue sparks form across the sea, rush up the cliffside, and settle on Misty’s little body. The glowing sparks fade on her pale skin, like some sort of intricate tattoo.

Misty looks ten times better, eyes wide and happy, and then, to Draco’s shock, the fireballs disappear and Misty’s face falls, shadowed with her back to the moon.

_ “So you’re the one in my house now.” _

Draco whirls on the spot, wand raising, already stepping in front of his little elf friend, and finds...a blue form of a woman?

She has wickly wavy hair that trails down her back, big bright eyes, and a beauty mark to the left of thin lips. Normally, Draco wouldn’t be panicking because an intruder means death, which is a good thing, but this isn’t an intruder. She looks more like a ghost patronus. 

Even weirder is the fact that she’s smiling at him.

_ “Relax, boy, I am not here to harm you. You were called to the ocean, and those called can never be truly evil, no matter how grey their hearts may be.” _

Her eyes leave his face, falling on Misty behind him and softening.  _ “Misty...I’m happy to see you joined by a friend. We’ve been watching over you, you know.” _

“M-mistress!” Misty sobs.

Draco honestly feels like sobbing too.

“You- you’re Lady Emilia?”

_ “In the flesh, well, mostly.” _

“But  _ how?  _ Misty said you died, and that you-”

_ “I see you have yet to understand.”  _ Emilia sighs.  _ “Those who are drawn by the ocean never truly die, we go on living in her great waves. There is a reason she’s called you here, Draco Malfoy. There is a reason I am happy to see you in my home.” _

Draco doesn’t know what to say, but he should probably say something because it’s not every day that one encounters a clearly dead person who isn’t a ghost and also apparently connected to the  _ fucking ocean  _ of all things.

_ “I don’t have long,”  _ Emilia frowns,  _ “I’m afraid I can only be in this form during a full moon at high tide. I am much too weak to retain it for long, but I will not leave you, none of us will.” _

“Us?!”

Emilia doesn’t bother answering his question,  _ “Draco Malfoy, the ocean has called and you have answered. The road before you is uncertain, but your heart’s condition is. You are pure, Draco Malfoy, and you are kind. The hurt you carry is nothing more than baggage weighing you down. My advice to you is to drop it into the ocean, let her wash the pain away, let her heal you.” _

“But I-”

_ “Listen! There are still things you don’t understand! You must finish the house, make it your own. Me and my family are dead and gone, the house, the ocean, and even Misty have chosen you.” _

“What do you mean-”

_ “Finish the house, it and the ocean will grant you knowledge.” _

“What does that-”

The blue around her glows a little more, as though the moon is tugging her backwards. Her hands reach out to him, disappearing in a fog of blue, it travels up her arms, her legs, her torso and-

_ “Oceanum videre! Visit me next month! Finish the house, Misty! Misty I love you, take care of Draco-” _

She fades out as the sea calms, and in her place is a faint blue light. Draco sees another out by the house, and when he turns around he finds one resting in Misty’s hands.

“Miss Alex?” The elf whispers, tears streaming down her face. Draco smells a storm coming. It descends upon them out of nowhere, the breeze, no,  _ the glowing balls of light,  _ push them towards the house. 

They make it inside right before the rain comes pouring down.

He hasn’t the faintest clue about what just happened, but Misty is still crying, and Salem is clawing up his leg.

Draco leans down to pick the kitten up, then turns Misty around until she’s in his arms.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Misty is quiet the next day. 

She doesn’t wake him up, doesn’t pester him about cleaning, doesn’t even acknowledge Salem. 

She reminds him of himself during their first week. 

_ Finish the house,  _ Emilia said.

Draco starts in the kitchen.

It’s the first on his list for ‘tomorrow’ since they haven’t had real food in two weeks and his body is starting to fail him. Spells can only do so much, and Misty enjoys cooking.

He takes what little food they have and their repaired shared water cup and brings it into the living room where he sets it all down. A wordless  _ aguamenti  _ later and he pushes the cup into Misty’s hands.

She doesn't say a word.

Draco returns to the kitchen, Salem following closely behind.

He starts by vanishing everything.

The cabinets, the broken fridge, the useless stove, the chairs, the tables, even the fucking sink. When he’s left with nothing but an empty room Draco tells Misty that he’s going out. 

She doesn't even look at him, but Salem does, so Draco sighs, picks the cat up, and aparates them back to the Scottish Wizarding area.

For all of Kingsley’s promises of abandon, the shops are still busy. It’s nowhere near crowded Diagon Alley, he can only spot about twenty people loitering around, but it’s enough to make him clutch Salem a little closer and keep his head down as he makes his way back to the hardware store.

The woman behind the counter, Alice, tells him that she doesn't have what he’s looking for, and sends him to a shop called  _ ‘Howie’s Homes Improvement for Wizards’,  _ which at least sounds promising.

As soon as he steps into the store he’s a little overwhelmed, but Salem purrs against his chest, keeping his heart steady.

“You new here?”

Draco turns to see a small, elderly man, wearing an apron and a big smile.

He nods.

“Ah, you don’t talk much, huh? You the quiet wizard ol’ Sal was talking about? His son, little Willie, was raving about you yesterday, thinks all the younger wizards hang the moon and stars that one.”

“From the wand shop?”

“Yep! He’s an ol’ friend of mine, said I might be seeing you around. You need help with anything?”

Salem perks his little head up, staring deeply into the soul of the shopkeeper before settling back down in Draco’s arm, apparently unbothered.

“Do you have a kitchen section?”

They do, in fact, have a kitchen section. They seem to have  _ everything.  _

Draco settles for the basics.

He gets a forest green cabinet and counter set, with copper handles, white marble tops, and a hidden trashcan that pulls out and vanishes whatever’s thrown into it. He gets the island set to go with it, a beautiful copper sink with flower detailing. The shopkeeper, Howie, talks him into getting a copper-stained fridge that has preserving charms in it, will make a note on any paper put on the outside when something needs to be restocked, and has a freezer component that freezes things to a perfect temperature, no matter if it’s ice cream or meet. The stove that Howie talks him into is  _ way  _ too complex for Draco to fully understand what any of it means. It has precise heating charms so food never burns, whatever a double oven is, a griddle and an unbreakable glass stove top, a lot of knobs and buttons that confuse the fuck out of Draco, but it’s copper, will go with the rest of his apparent theme, and it might make Misty smile.

He doesn't plan on getting more than that, but then Howie tells him about a wizard’s microwave, perfect for everything from coffee to potions, and he has one in copper so Draco can’t  _ not  _ get it. Speaking of coffee, he definitely needs a coffee machine. How lucky for him that Howie has a cheap black one that he can eventually replace. Howie somehow gets him looking at a wizard’s dishwasher, and Draco knows, when he sees the burned orange, almost copper one that matches the stove, that he’ll be getting it. At least cleaning dishes in record time is useful. It even kills germs, and can repair any damaged charms the owner puts on their washable items.

When he tells Howie that he hasn’t painted, looked at tables or island stools, or even light fixtures, Howie practically drags him over to a different aisle and the two of them debate over paints of all things.

In the end Draco settles on a simple white since forest green cabinets will be filling most of the walls anyways. He does agree that a copper range hood with the same flower patterns as the sink seems practical, and that if he’s looking to use the new kitchen tonight, he might as well get some stools at the very least.

He gets iron bar stools to go with the iron staircase, the actual seat a plush burned orange shell that’s apparently charmed to be  _ extremely comfortable.  _ The light fixtures he wasn’t too sure on. Back at the Manor it was all chandeliers and wall sconces, but looking at those makes Draco feel like he’s going to puke, so he ends up getting three circular, copper, hanging pendant lights. 

And since they’re close to the right aisle, Draco lets Howie talk him into a small, round, glass table. He only gives in because the base of the table is made from a copper flower bouche, the blooms visible form the top, and it’s so perfect Draco can’t pass it up, so he gets it and also finds himself with forest green dining chairs that are the same shape and texture of the barstools.

Howie starts taking him to the decorations, and Draco puts his foot down because he can’t decorate a space that hasn’t even been created yet, to which Howie nods and tips him off that the muggle stores are cheaper and a lot better when it comes to décor. He adds two books called  _ ‘Basic Magical Upgrades’  _ and  _ ‘To Make a Home’  _ to Draco’s purchase for free, even giving him a little ball for Salem, who’s managed to sleep through this trip.

Draco returns to the cottage with all his items in an expanded shopping bag. He deposits Salem next to Misty, slightly worried that she still hasn’t moved from her spot on the living room, staring out into the ocean like she too is considering stepping over the edge.

It takes all of three simple spells to get the kitchen set up. Draco spells paint on the walls, hits it with a quick drying spell, then steps back as cabinets spring into place, his appliances flying out of his bag and into the spots that Draco points to with his wand. He puts the fridge over to the side that leads out to the hallway, the stove and it’s range on the wall that connect with the office, the sink next to the bay window that he should probably paint, and finally tucks the table into the left corner that’s closest to him. When that’s all done he carefully places the chairs and the coffee pot.

Then he curses himself silly because Howie was  _ right.  _

He needs decorations.

And food, plus the means to cook said food, which warrants another trip to the store.

But, because Howie told him to go visit the muggle shopping district in Edinburgh, he does.

The first time he ever went shopping in muggle areas was because of a stupid dare from Pansy. He’d been fourteen, trying to distract himself from the stress of the Triwizard Tournament and the darkening mark on his father’s arm. Narcissa sent him ghastly, old, inherited,  _ special  _ Malfoy formal robes for the Yule Ball, a note that said he could complain all he wanted to, but he was to wear them or face Lucius’s wrath and looking at the stupid frilly things sent him into a panic. So, ever the voice of reason in the Slytherin Dungeons, Pansy dared him and Blasie to go shopping in the muggle parts. 

At first he’d been furious, because while he knew muggles weren’t all that bad, they were still kinda scary, and most muggle things have a wizard alternative, so he thought the whole thing was stupid.

And then he and Blaise were met with muggle clothes, record stores, and paintings that didn’t move. 

It figures. The way to get him to completely fall for muggles  _ would  _ be through shopping.

If anything, Draco secretly likes muggle shopping more. For one thing, it’s a little cheaper than what he would get in wizarding stores, since it’s all standard with no ridiculously expensive charms on it from some old coot who  _ happens  _ to be the only charmer who can do whatever spell Draco could probably find in a book if he tried hard enough. But, more than price, shopping with muggles means no one will recognize him.

Out here he’s just some blonde bloke with a weird tattoo. 

The anomaly is  _ wonderful  _ for his soul, but horrible for his bank account.

He ends up going several places and finding several bits and pieces for his kitchen.

A plush white rug for underneath his dining table, a set of crystal dishes and cups from a flea market. On his trip to the thrift store, which had once been his, Pansy, and Blaise’s favorite muggle thing to do, he finds  _ real silver  _ utensils. Also a few unmoving paintings of various, artistically painted, and  _ bloody brilliant  _ abstracts. He spots a blue child’s dress with pretty yellow flowers that looks to be Misty’s size, so he grabs that too. 

Since he’s here in the cheaper parts, Draco also resigns himself to going  _ grocery shopping.  _ Something his mum would faint at, he’s sure. She used to make these big lists that were self-updating and have the elves add missing items to their weekly delivery orders. And now her son,  _ the Draco Malfoy,  _ is piling muggle food into a dingy shopping cart. He is so,  _ so, so  _ very thankful to have his card from Obsidian.

On his previous muggle shopping trips, he and Blasie always had to transfigure their money when no one was looking before even leaving Hogwarts, and now, thanks to modern goblin technology, he can simply swipe his card and let the bank deal with it.

Once again, the convenience is  _ wonderful  _ for his soul, but horrible for his bank account, as this new, mush easier, way of shopping ends with him buying a fucking wheat colored, breifcase record player, letting the shop assistant pick out a few vinyls to go with it. 

At the end of his mini-shopping spree, Draco finds himself with a few new books, a couple of mismatched coffee cups, a few toys for Salem, a new off-white sweater, some pants that were said to be the most comfortable thing  _ ever,  _ a blanket he didn’t really need, a set of copper cookware, and a few odds and ends to really make the kitchen feel less...empty.

He should really be getting back to the cottage.

It’s already five, and he only cast a three house  _ satius  _ charm on the food that will be ending soon. He’s stepping into an alleyway, fully intending on aparating back, and then a plant shop catches his eye.

There’s at least fifty Monsteras in the window alone, and Misty told him during his first week that it was her favorite.

Naturally, if his whole mission for the day is to make Misty happy  _ and  _ finish the kitchen, he can’t pass up a plant shop.

One plant quickly turns into several, and before Draco knows it, he’s leaving with three Monsteras, a few Pothos, some Snake Plants  _ with no snakes _ , a  _ Spider Plant with no real spiders,  _ and some ivy that makes some semblance of sense. Really, what is it with muggles and their need to name innocent, non lethal plants such condemning names?

When he gets back, Misty is still sat in the living room, so Draco goes straight to the kitchen and takes out his wand, trying desperately to remember those spells he made the houseleves teach him when he was sixteen and trying to figure out how hard running from the Dark Lord would be.

The rug is easy enough to deal with, a simple placement charm, and a few extra ones to keep it clean and plush for as long as possible. He remembers to cast Unbreakable spells on everything that’s breakable, popping an anti-tarnishing charm on his utensils,  _ scorngifying  _ every last inch of his items clean before spelling them into cabinets. Next he puts the food away because the  _ saitus  _ alarm beeps and he  _ really  _ doesn't want his ice cream to melt. Then he moves onto stocking the coffee and tea cabinet, putting out paper towels, the knife set he bought that he sharpens with a few cutting spells; shoving wooden cutting boards, his new copper kettle, various cooking necessities that were shoved on him from a sales assistant, and lastly the bakeware into their respective cabinets.

It only takes a few minutes to spell everything away, so Draco moves though his bags to find the paintings, a few of the smaller plants, and a weird golden sun sculpture he’d felt compelled to buy. He plops them down on the bay window seal, places one of the Snake Plants at the center of the dining table, and then moves to put the rest of the plants in Misty’s sad sun room.

With that done, it’s merely six o’clock, and the only things Draco has left to put away are personal artifacts that have no place.

So he takes a look in the fridge, a glance in the cabinets, and decides that a nice, warm, cinnamon spiced carrot and apple soup sounds amazing.

He’s pouring it into bowls when Misty walks in the room and freezes on the spot.

“M...Mister Draco be fixing the kitchen?”

“I went shopping too, got a few odds and ends for you, but you can’t see them until you’ve eaten.”

Misty’s eyes grow wider, Draco worries they might pop out of her head. “Mister Draco be making Misty food?”

“Yep. Hope you don’t mind being poisoned, I’m afraid I’m a rather terrible cook, and this was supposed to be a simple meal.”

Misty follows him over to the table, wide eyes taking in the sights, and then she glances at the soup and frowns.

“What did Mister Draco be making?”

Draco grimances. “It’s supposed to be carrot and apple soup.”

“But that soup is being orange, and this soup is being….” She holds up a spoonful, watching the unidentified brown liquid splash back into her bowl.

“Maybe it won’t kill you and will be a problem solving solution for me?”

Misty gives him a look.

Despite the color and general poisonous atmosphere, they eat the soup anyways. It roughly tastes like if someone set fire to an apple after brutally stabbing it with a metal carrot, which makes no sense but Misty smiles when he explains it and that’s exactly what he’s been trying for all day.

When he shows her the additions he’s made to the plants in the sunroom, Misty hugs him so hard he worries about his legs breaking, and when he shows her the dress, he has to watch in horror as her little eyes fill with tears.

Does she think he’s trying to free her? She’s technically bound to the ocean, so clothing shouldn’t have an impact on her, and Draco skipped over the  _ freeing  _ section of the spell because  _ there wasn’t a fucking section for it  _ He regrets not reading more of the barely legible notes. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be mean! I just- I saw it, and I thought of you, and I didn’t meant to- I’m  _ sorry  _ Misty, please don’t cry-”

“Mister Draco is being so kind!”

She flings herself onto Draco’s legs again, squeezing them so hard they go numb when she finally lets go.

So she does like it? He feels very confused. 

Draco clears his throat. “If you think that’s cool, come with me.”

They make their way back to the living room. Salem comes out from wherever he was hiding, approaching them cautiously as Draco rummages through his bags.

The second Salem’s eyes land on the cat toys he abandons them completely. Well, he does until Draco takes out the record player.

“A brief case?”

“Kinda.” Draco shoves the vinyls into her hands, tells her to pick one out while he flips the latches and reads through an instruction manual.

Five minutes later he and Misty lay on the floor, Salem and the record player between them, listening to a song called  _ Benny and The Jets  _ by some muggle named Elton John. Misty preoccupies herself with Salem and the cat toys, Draco flips through the books he got from Howie, learning a few tips and tricks that’ll end up helping him. 

Eventually three little, blue glowing balls join them in the room.

His neck is starting to hurt. 

He’d be more comfortable if he were sitting on a chair instead of craning his neck from the floor.

Or if he’d taken a hot bath, got round to scrubbing the dirt out of his hair, or even actually scrubbed his teeth instead of spelling them clean.

Draco flips the vinyl over to side B, glancing at the tracklist to see a song called  _ Goodbye Yellow Brick Road  _ is next.

Tomorrow.

He’ll deal with it tomorrow.

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Libraries and Special Rooms

Tomorrow comes bright and early, to the sound of loud ‘meows’ and hushed whispers from Misty.

The smell of coffee fills his nose and for a moment Draco wonders if he died and somehow was granted a paradise in his passing. It’s either that or having to smell such a delectable scent without tasting a single drop, a fate worse than hell.

Turns out it's neither, just Misty bringing him a cup of black coffee and a big smile.

“Good Morning Mister Draco! Today we should be doing the bathrooms and the living room.”

Draco nearly spits out the sweet liquid in his mouth. He doesn’t, partly because he’s still half asleep and partly because this coffee tastes like  _ every single good thing ever.  _ After his second sip, when he’s fully registered his friend’s words, Draco scowls.

“Two rooms in one day? No.”

“But Mister Draco-”

“Misty, I don’t have the magical power for that-”

“Yes you do! We can be taking a break, sir! And Misty be having her magic back! Misty can help!”

He’s still fairly against the idea of doing  _ two rooms  _ in  _ one day.  _ The kitchen was exhausting, he can’t imagine the magical strain doing a bathroom  _ and  _ the living room would cause. 

Even so, Misty is looking at him with those big black eyes full of hope and Draco feels his resolve melting away with every sip of the beautiful, stunning,  _ immaculate  _ coffee.

“We’ll start with one and if-  _ if, Misty-  _ I feel okay after, I’ll  _ consider-” _

Misty cheers. 

Draco wonders where the hell all this energy came from. 

He shoos her away so he can get dressed in the off-white cotton sweater he bought yesterday. Briefly he considers wearing wizarding pants, but those muggle leggings are looking wildly comfortable, so he ends up tugging them on. They feel a bit like a second skin, but also like a nylon armour, and are  _ so bloody comfortable  _ that he doesn’t care a bit how they look. 

For Merlin’s sake it’s not like he got a weird color.

They’re just black leggings, he’s been to fucking  _ Azkaban,  _ and he barely knows anyone in his stupid, supposedly empty, town. 

He casts a charm on his leggings to give them expanded pockets, throws his wallet, wand, and a few other odds and ends in said pockets, and then meets Misty by the front door.

She’s wearing her new dress.

Draco tries, and miserably fails, to hide the smile splitting his face in half.

The wizard street, Draco  _ really  _ needs to learn the bloody street names, isn’t as busy today as it was yesterday, which means it takes him all of five seconds to enter Howie’s shop.

After a brief introduction, he and Misty play rock-paper-scissors to determine which room they’ll be starting with.

To Draco’s horror, the bathroom is going to come first.

Howie drags them over to the right aisle, and thirty seconds later he and Misty are arguing.

He refuses to budge. No house, not even the little cottage by the sea, is going to have a  _ pink bathroom  _ on the first floor. It’s just  _ not  _ happening. 

“But pink is the  _ perfect color,  _ Mister Draco!”

“I never said I have something against the color, I’m merely pointing out that a  _ pink bathroom  _ isn’t a good idea for the  _ first floor guest bathroom!” _

“Pink is  _ inviting!” _

Draco thinks of Do-whore-s Um-bitch. “No, I assure you, it isn’t.”

Misty glares at him.

Howie laughs.

Somehow, with Howie acting as a magnificent peacekeeper, they come to a few compromises.

Misty tells Howie that they’ll be back later today, Howie takes one look at Draco’s semi-scowl-semi-smile and laughs again.

“I’ll look forward to it!”

Draco takes them home, confines Salem with a small spell so he won’t get in the way and accidentally hurt himself, and then he and Misty start in the bathroom across from the library.

It’s ten times faster with Misty helping him.

She cleans it so hard that the once broken, dingy, and half-rotted walls shine, all with a singular snap of her finger. Draco sets the walls, they both spell the sink and toilet into place, and then they step back to admire their work.

Draco ended up winning in the lack of pink  _ everything.  _

The bathroom, instead of looking like the worst Defense teacher in all of history constructed it, is simple, mostly black and white. White floor tiles with little black flowers here and there, coming up the walls to the quarter and a half mark, where a forest green border separates the title from white walls. The toilet is the latest model, charmed to warm in the winter, keep cool in the summer, and will alert whoever’s using it if something is off with their body's continents.

Draco did not, however, win the argument about the sink.

He’d wanted it to be copper, like the one in the kitchen, and Misty had nearly torn his head off. 

Instead he’d been threatened into getting a big, light birch sink with a few drawers and a lovely, deep, perfectly polished sink. He transfigures the handles on the doors to match the flowers on the tile, and while he’d like to do the same to the sink handles, he’s worried about messing up the long neck of the faucet, so he leaves it alone, refusing to meet Misty’s pointed look.

Draco  _ did,  _ thankfully, beg Misty into letting him have an accent wall. The wall with the sink attached flows with a moving vine painting. Misty told him he’d regret it if he ever used the bathroom while drunk, but the vines  _ literally look like they’re swaying in the ocean breeze.  _ How could he pass that up? When it ties into the green border so well? When it will probably save him a few hundred gallons that would be spent on plants for the tiny bathroom?

He simply could not and would not leave Howie’s without it.

Misty refuses to comment on it, even if Draco does catch her admiring it.

After a few seconds Misty nods.

“It is being time to finish our compromises, Mister Draco.”

Merlin, he never knew elves could sound so...sinister.

But, because he’s hoping to tire Misty out so they don’t have to do the living room today, Draco nods. He sits her down on the white toilet seat and tells her to stay still.

“This might feel a bit funny, but I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Mister Draco would never be hurting Misty.” 

Merlin, Morgana, Circe,  _ and  _ that god fellow. She’s going to get him all choked up and he’s going to completely butcher the spell.

Not that he could.

He’s used this a thousand times on house elves he’s sworn to secret whenever he fancied a bit of muggle shopping at home. It’s a rather complicated glamor and transfiguration, some charm work and even a few old spells he’d discovered in the Malfoy Library.

But when it’s done Draco is panting, a little sweaty, and staring at Misty’s unrecognizable form.

She looks like she could be his younger sister.

Instead of looking very much like a doll of a house elf, Misty now looks like a young human. Her skin is pale, like his, her ears look mostly human, still pointy at the ends but they’re hidden by her wavy pale-blonde bob so it’s fine. He couldn’t change the color of her eyes, or the shape too much, so they now look like slightly large black almonds, her nose is still adorably round and small. Clad stil in her little blue dress, Misty looks...she looks a bit like Luna when she was younger.

The thought sucks all the remaining air out of Draco’s lungs.

He stumbles out of the bathroom, nearly running over Salem, falling on his knees when he reaches the living room.

“Mister Draco?!” Misty clutches at his shoulders. “It is being okay, Mister Draco! Misty be feeling no pain at all! It is being okay!”

Draco takes a few deep breaths, reminding himself that Luna’s hair hasn’t been curly since she was three years old, and while the resemblance is a little weird, he’s probably just missing his family and projecting that onto his friend.

He should really read his mother’s letter.

But for now he’s going to let Misty bring him water, let Salem crawl into his lap, catch his breath, and get his mind back to the present.

“Did...does it look bad?” Misty asks, her little hand coming up to pat the bob on her head.

“No, not at all. You just remind me of someone like that.”

“Is that someone bad?”

Draco smiles at her, but it’s filled with sadness that water and deep breathing can’t wash away. “No, she’s not bad. She’s my cousin, actually.”

Misty sits down beside him, he misses her usual appearance. “Do you miss her?”

“....More than I can put into words sometimes.”

“Misty is sorry to be causing Mister Draco pain.”

“Nonsense,” Draco ruffles her hair, “I love Luna, if anything I should be apologizing for freaking out on you. Shall we get going?”

Misty gives him a look, like she’s contemplating calling their shopping trip off, and Draco can’t have that.

If he doesn't have something to do he’ll end up right where he started.

Starving, wishing for death, watching the ocean from the bay windows and begging it to push him over the edge.

Misty’s first impression of the Edinburgh shopping district is that it’s  _ loud,  _ colorful, and so very cool.

Draco has to physically pull her back from a few shops, he completes shields her view from the plant store that got him yesterday, and at some point he ends up holding her by the hand and literally  _ dragging  _ her to their intended destination.

The home furnishing store he spotted yesterday, the one called Dunelm. 

Misty has a fucking bloody  _ field day. _

She talks him into a ridiculous round golden mirror, a golden towel hanger, light rose hand and face towels, a fucking  _ golden toliet paper holder,  _ a plush pink, almost white but still fucking pink, rug. He draws the line when she tries to talk him into a golden plunger that they have absolutely  _ no need  _ for.

After promising to get soaps, a vanishing trash bin, and a bloody diffuser from Wizard Scottland, Draco thinks they’re ready to go.

They’ve just stepped into the back of the line when Misty gasps and promptly runs away from him.

Naturally, he chases after her, items clinking in their buggy.

“Misty! Misty,  _ get back here!” _

He finds her staring in awe at beautiful, comfortable-looking, pale rose shell chair. 

“No-”

“The legs match the gold from the table Mister Draco be making eyes at in Howie’s.”

Draco bites down on his tongue.

Misty, somehow, sees this as a sign of weakness, and turns her baby Luna-looking face with big, black doe eyes on him.

_ “Please?  _ I’ll let Mister Draco pick the couch and won’t be complaining! Not even once!  _ Please!” _

Cleary, the ocean has damned him.

He picks up the chair, plops it in his cart, and starts walking away without another word. 

If Misty does a victory dance he resolutely does not smile at it.

He hates how good the pink looks in the bathroom, how the gold ties everything in, and above all else he hates how he looks in the mirror.

Draco doesn't mean to look. 

He’s hanging it up with a few spells, eyes trained on the wall, not his reflection, and then Misty gasps, and he thinks he did it wrong or something, so  _ of course  _ his eyes glance at the mirror, hanging perfectly in all it’s obnoxious golden glory, and fixate on his reflection. 

No wonder the people here have been being so nice to him.

He looks….not good. 

And that’s the kindest way he can possibly put it.

Deep, dark, bruises litter his under eyes, almost like someone’s punched his lights out with no swelling. The worst part are the scars from Greyback. 

Three, large, just scabbing over claw marks. Starting at Draco’s hair line, going over his left eye, and ending at his jaw. 

He can’t remember that today. He just….can’t. 

So he tries to look away. 

But looking away from his eyes brings him to his hair. Once so luscious, so shiny and sleek, he’d take  _ hours  _ at night to make sure it was as straight as a board, slicking it back, using spells to keep it narrow, never letting it fall lower than the tips of his ears because it was  _ disrespectful  _ to have long hair.

It’s grown a bit, down to the tops of his shoulders. A matted, wavy, pale gold mess. Sticking up in every which way, slapped down with grease and mistreatment. 

He can’t look at it for long, but looking away from his hair and avoiding his eyes leaves him glaring hard at the hollowness of his cheeks, more pronounced by the  _ bloody fucking scars on the left side of his fucking face _ , the bruise on the right side of his jaw line from sleeping on the floor, chapped small lips, slightly stained teeth, a thin neck, ridiculously defined from his lack of nutrition.

He’s so skinny the sweater that should fit him perfectly falls off his shoulders, exposing deep clavicles, a collarbone marred from scars. 

Draco reaches up to cover himself, only to find Misty tugging at his arm.

“Mister Draco! Mister Draco! I look so  _ pretty!”  _

“That you do,” Draco manages weakly.

“We  _ have  _ to finish the living room so Misty can show the world how pretty Mister Draco be making her!”

“Misty, I’m not really-”

“And then Mister Draco can be washing in the sink and not sleeping on the floor!” Misty beams up at him, “I bet Mister Draco will look even more pretty than he normally does after he eats a good, Misty-made meal!”

Even more pretty?

He doesn’t look pretty in the slightest. If anything he looks like-

Misty pulls him away form the mirror, aparting them away before he can finish that thought.

Back in Howie’s, the blow to his previously uncaring abilities is apparent. He can’t help but feel a little self conscious, a little more aware, a little more hurt from all the help Howie is offering him.

Misty is having none of it, bickering with him until he forgets about his appearance all together because,  _ no,  _ he is  _ not  _ having  _ anything  _ with dark wood in  _ any place  _ he resides in.

Emilia told him to  _ fix the house,  _ not make it dark and frightening like the Manor.

With Misty bickering with him, Draco ends up taking complete control.

He gets two plush forest green oversized loveseats, the ones with warming and cooling charms, a ten year cushioning charm, and golden feet. He gets  _ another  _ glass table with flowers on it, this one a round coffee table outlined in a golden frame, and he knows for a  _ fact  _ that the flowers he can see through the top are pansies. Because he’s in the business of making the cottage look nothing like the Manor, Draco even gets a hanging rattan chair, one with an unbreakable string. 

He buys plush pink pillows, a ridiculous pale patterned rug, a stupid oval rattan bookcase, he gets warm greyish brown bricks to redo the fireplace, a silly looking cat tree that looks like a real tree, a fucking lavish ass cat tent. 

He stomps down to Alice’s shop and gets a light, almost white, pink paint.

He stalks down the alleyway, that’s apparently named Yellow Brick Road even though there’s not a singular yellow brick in sight, to the beauty shop where he spends another couple of hundred gallons.

Soaps with different healing spells and charms, incense and diffusers,  _ fucking scar cream.  _ Misty tries to add shampoo to his basket but is stopped by the sales lady. 

“If you’re looking for personal hygiene.” Draco sees her eyes flicker from his hair to his scar to his eyes. “I recommend visiting Clara. She can help with just about anything.”

“Thanks.” Is all Draco can manage without either crying or ripping her limb from limb. 

She gives them a card, Draco rips it to shreds the second he’s out of the shop.

When he and Misty finally stop for the evening, Draco’s actually halfway impressed with their handiwork in the living room.

The walls need decorating, but they look  _ so  _ much better than the original falling apart, mold eaten, and stained things he found upon his arrival. The light pink is  _ wonderful  _ with the green couches that Draco put to the left and back of the room. There’s still a little walkway behind the couch closest to the back wall, partly because Draco plans to add a window seat to the bay window, and partly because Misty insisted that having the couches against the wall would look weird in the big space, but mostly so they still have access to the back door. To the right Draco put the hanging chair and the infernal shell chair Misty loves. The golden coffee table sits on top of the ridiculously fully, almost cloud like rug. Behind the couch, pushed back to the far right corner of the room is his stupid circle bookshelf. He already has a small collection of vinyls thanks to overbearing muggles, but they look pretty damn good on the second shelf, his record player and a few trinkets sitting on the top shelf. He’ll have to get something to go on the bottom shelf, but he’s tired and therefore adding that to the ‘Tomorrow’ list. 

In the left back corner is Salem’s area. Draco’s rather stunned by how tree-like the cat tree is. A hiding hole in the trunk, a few hammocks in the branches, and at the top is a flattened perch that Salem currently looks down at them on. His cat tent rests on the couch because Draco isn’t sure where he wants it, and Misty keeps complaining about the lack of decorations in the room but Draco can’t deal with that right now because he’s trying to fix the fucking fire place.

It’s not  _ nearly  _ as easy as the instructions make it look.

Especially when he’s dealing with a floo network.

“Mister Draco can’t get rid of the floo!”

“I bloody well can! Who the hell is going to use it?”

“Mister Draco’s friends!”

Draco gives Misty a look.

He raises his wand, planning on going through the strings of magic and cutting the connection to the floo network right the hell off. It should be easy to find it. Floo connections are bright green. Not the color of Potter’s eyes, not the color or grass or trees, not the color of Slytherin green, or any of his comfortable green accents around the cottage. It’s more a bright lime color, to match the lime fire that signals an enter or an exit. 

The lime color comes into view.

Something knocks his wand to the side.

Instead of a shattered floo, Draco ends up spewing the warm brick all over the right wall, it somehow manages to stick, and worse,  _ solidifies into the pink walls!  _ His beautiful pink wall, ruined by warm dorian grey bricks. The fire in front of him roars to life, a big stupid thing that takes up a big ‘L’ shaped portion of the wall, coming out just big enough for wood to rest on the part that doesn’t go to the ceiling.

It looks great, honestly, but it still has the  _ fucking  _ floo attached.

Draco turns his head to glare at the little blue ball of light next to them, then turns to glare at Misty by the open window.

“The ocean and Mistress be saying that the floo stays.”

“The ocean is a pain in the ass.” Draco grumbles.

He ignores the breeze that comes through so harshly it slaps on him the side. Instead he turns his glare on the blue ball. “You want it to stay too, huh?”

No reply comes, but to be fair, he wasn’t exactly expecting one.

“You’re also a pain in the ass.”

The blue ball smacks him on the forehead. 

He ends up grumbling until Misty starts making noises about dinner. Draco’s personal plans include lying on the floor for a bit, but he somehow ends up helping Misty in the kitchen. She says that he cuts things weirdly, and that somehow turns into a lecture on the differences between mincing and chopping. She lets him (against his will) stir the mash potatoes, makes him help with the chicken, and even teaches him that asparagus with nothing but lemon, pepper, and oil can make a healthy side dish.

They sit at the table, neither of them having the heart to tell Salem to get off it.

“Mister Draco did good today.”

“Thanks, you did too.”

“We be shopping for decorations tomorrow?”

Draco nods, salivating over the garlic chicken. Merlin, he can’t believe he helped with this and it  _ still  _ tastes good.

Misty puts down her fork. Draco frowns.

“What is it?”

“Misty….” She looks away, her eyes focusing on the paintings on the wall. “Misty has been thinking, sir. She...she is happy that Mister Draco is putting effort into the house, happy that Mister Draco has been being more alive….but Misty thinks that Mister Draco and Misty should be taking breaks on Saturdays and Sundays. Mistresses and Master never liked to be doing work, Mistress said it was bad for a wizard’s health to be working all the time….and Mister Draco’s health is already….”

“Bad.” Draco finishes for her.

She gives him a guilty look. “Misty is not meaning to offend Mister Draco, but Misty is being concerned, sir. Misty wants Mister Draco to be healthy, and happy, and even being at peace in his cottage.” Her eyes stare blankly at her food. “Misty be wanting Mister Draco to not be afraid of the mirrors anymore, sir.” 

Draco freezes.

_ Fuck.  _ Has he been  _ that  _ obvious? 

To make his anxiety worse, Misty slowly places the card that Draco  _ swears  _ he tore up. A card for a fucking wizard’s spa. 

“Misty is thinking...that after we be finishing the house...Mister Draco should be going at least once….we could be starting on the upstairs bathrooms so Mister Draco can be showering and maybe-”

“The first floor first.” Draco whispers. “We’ll finish the first floor, and then we deal with the second floor.”

His voice carries enough finality to it for Misty’s little body to droop. Shame, sadness, concern, it all radiates off her and Draco wants to smash his head into the wall.

“I’ll think about it. The spa, I mean.”

Misty beams at him.

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


As promised in the wretched ‘Tomorrow’ list, they take to muggle shops the next day. He’s already known by some shops, and he’s not sure if it’s because of his acquired tastes or his awful appearance. He tries not to think about it too much.

They get a golden triangular bracket thing, Draco’s not really too sure of it’s name, but it looks like it’ll keep his vinyls from tangling together. In a thrift store, they find a wicker chest with a dome lid that’s perfect for blankets, a few odd line art paintings of men and women, and a few more weird little sculptures that Draco can’t bring himself to part with. He makes the mistake of letting Misty pull him into a home store, where he somehow ends up getting two leather butterfly chairs for Misty’s unknown purposes. They pass by a record shop and Draco falls prey to it, just like how Misty falls prey to the second thrift store’s children’s clothing, and how they both become near obsessed at the five plant shops they run into. In an antique store they find a lovely, large, unfortunately golden mirror that Misty will not let them leave without, but she doesn’t make a single comment about the amount of blankets Draco buys so he caves and gets it for her. Misty takes a liking to a tapestry they see in a window, and Draco asks her why the hell they would buy one when Draco can make one of finer quality, and Misty promptly demands they go to Yellow Brick Rd. to get wizard’s sewing material.

They visit a shop on Blue Street to find all sorts of material that Draco definitely spends  _ way  _ too much money on. He fully expects Griphook to send him a warning letter any day now. The first will come when his account has gone lower than five hundred thousand gallons, and he could’ve sworn he passed that on Wednesday. They drop by Howie’s because he’s apparently having a sale today, and upon seeing them he rushes Draco over to a weird…

“A what now?”

“It’s a washer and dryer! Muggles have ‘em, I dunno why wizard’s haven’t taken this up before instead of making house elves do the washing and drying. No offense, Misty dear, but these guys are a lot quicker. You see, this one-” he points to the washer “-washes all the clothes, it gets out stains, any curses, replenishes any spells on enchanted items, and we got in a whole lot of different scent pods to go with it so your clothes smell all nice and this one-” he waves his hand towards the dryer “-dries the clothes. It’s got all those fancy charms that keep clothes warm for however long you’d like, gets rid of wrinkles, and the best part is that, unlike muggle tech, it won’t shrink any of your clothes and you can put whatever you’d like in it! Something to do with a charm, but I’ve only gotten them in this morning and I’ve been too busy with the paint sell to figure it out completely, but isn’t it cool!”

Draco knows it’s not a sales pitch because, quite frankly, he’s seen Howie’s sell pitches and they….they aren’t good. The man is easier to read than a bedtime story, it’s child’s play to see what he really thinks of a product, and he looks  _ so damn happy,  _ and Misty is eyeing the things with a stupid amount of curiosity so Draco, in all his dumbness, says: “What colors do they come in?”

Howie launches onto another rant, talking about scent pods, how there’s no need for whatever the hell ‘laundry detergent’ and ‘dryer sheets’ are because it’s all done with magic, about the colors ranging from bright red to black and white, and when he shows Draco a catalogue of all the ones he has still wrapped up in the back, Draco freezes.

He thinks about laundry at the Malfoy Manor. Around the time he was seven he’d gotten curious. Wanted to know how, exactly, his laundry always managed to be clean and ready to go even if he’d only worn it two days prior. He’d snuck down to the elves quarters on the second level of the dungeons and seen them scrubbing their hands until they bleed. 

“That baby lavender one….I’ll take one of each in that.”

Howie turns to him, excitement written all over his face. “You will! Oh,  _ Mister Draco!  _ You’re an angel, I swear it. I’ll have to go grab it from the back-”

“Oh! If it’s too much trouble then please-”

“For my favorite customer? It’s not trouble at all! I know you’re redoing some sort of house, so if you’ve got more rooms to paint go take a look at the sale, everything’s half off! I’ll only be a minute!”

He’s gone before Draco can say anything, which leaves him with Misty dragging him to the paint aisle.

“We don’t be having a laundry room, sir. Mistress always be doing it by hand and hanging it out to dry with Misty.”

“We’ll make one.” Draco tells her, because as far as extending rooms go, he’s got that down pat. He  _ was  _ a little, admittedly, obsessed with personal space his sixth year at Hogwarts, and none of his roommates minded having separate quarters after a month of Draco panicking and turning that one bedroom into three different ones.

They stand in front of the paint section, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer  _ amount  _ of paints before Misty starts planning out the rooms that are left.

“Mister Draco be liking light colors and the color green, so Misty thinks the sun room should be being yellow.”

It can’t be white because that would make it too hard to be in the room if it was bright, but it also can’t be yellow because that wouldn’t go with...anything in the house at all. In all honesty, there are two walls that are completely covered by windows, and if he suggests making it green Misty might never talk to him again, so Draco thinks for a bit, and then points to the stone textures.

“We could do that? There’s a step down, so it’s very clearly a different part of the house, and that one matches the stone in the living room….we could get vines on it?”

Misty contemplates it, then nods. Something plants not doing well with magical paint anyways, but Draco’s not focused on it because he’s thinking about the laundry room that he’s going to build. He probably won’t even have to built it, there a section at the end of the left hallway that’s big enough, complete with its own smaller bay window, and a good ten feet from any sort of entrance. The nearest one is the archway into the office, that’s totally a big enough space for a small laundry room.

He let’s Misty get her pale mint walls because he refuses to budge on the yellow mess, which leave them considering the office and Draco’s drawing a blank so Misty picks out a soothing light grey and a dark lavender that he has no idea what they’re gonna do with, but Misty demands so Draco complies. He doesn't want to focus on the right wing of the down stairs yet, not until the left wing is complete, but Misty makes a good argument about the paints being  _ fifty percent off,  _ so Draco humors her. They’ve already done the bathroom, what’s a library, a spare room, and the hallways?

He gets white for the library because it’s easy to paint over if he doesn’t like it, an off-white beige for the hallways because it’s easy to pair decorations with, and lets Misty pick the final room’s color because it apparently means something to her.

To Draco’s horror, she selects a  _ fucking  _ pink, similar to the color of the living room.

Draco has no idea what the spare room looks like, Misty made him close his eyes when he looked in it to set the floors, but he now knows that he’ll probably hate it.

They aparate back to the cottage when they’re done. Draco’s vinyls become organized, the big golden mirror is hung on the wall between the two archways into the living room so Draco can see if anyone is outside the house if he chooses to sit on the couch with it’s back to the window. A wicker chest finds its home next to the oval bookcase, line paintings clutter up the walls, a sculpture of a black cat, a golden moon, and a weird...Draco doesn't really know what it is, but he puts it into place with the others. Plants are scattered around the room, and Draco wonders out to deal with making the laundry room.

It takes all of five minutes to set up.

All he has to do is magically stretch the walls, leave a little archway for entry, and flick the washer and dryer into place. He adds the mint paint to the wall and tries not to shudder. He’ll have to do something about that. Get a shelf or something to hold all the scent pods, and, hopefully, cover up some of the mint.

He stops by the office, before remembering that he has no clue what Misty wants to do with the lavender paint, and ends up setting the walls in the sunroom. They’re a little bare...it honestly looks like someone began growing a small apothecary in a dungeon, but with a little work he hopes it won’t make him frown.

Tomorrow, he’ll deal with it tomorrow.

No he won’t.

Tomorrow is Saturday, and Misty is making him take the day off.

Monday, then. He and Misty will deal with it on Monday.

Speaking of his little tyrant, he  _ really  _ needs to find her and figure out what the hell the lavender paint is for.

“Misty! I got the laundry room setup! I need to know what you wanna do with the- _ what the hell?” _

Misty calmly looks at him, looks at the new seating arrangement, and then looks back at him, clearly not understanding what the big deal is.

She’s moved the couches.

Now, instead of one to the right and one to the back, they’re horizontal from each other. To the right is now the hanging chair and Misty’s chair, the butterfly chairs to the left….right in front of the fireplace...with the  _ fucking  _ floo still attached.

“You-you moved the-”

“Yep! It be making more sense now!”

“But...but the backs will be to the fireplace!”

“It’s being okay, Mister Draco-”

“What if someone comes in and we don’t see them? The floo is still attached and I-”

“Mister Draco.” Misty says firmly. “No one will be coming into the house if they is not being good for us. The ocean won’t allow it.”

“But the wards-”

“The ocean will handle it until the ocean be thinking Mister Draco is being ready to put up wards.”

Draco blinks at her. The familiar calming smell of the sea fills his nose, that calming push and pull beckoning him close to peace.

“The ocean be taking care of us!” Misty smiles up at him.

She drags him back to the office while the words are still sinking into his skull.

When he finally manages to drag himself out of his mind, the office is two new colors.

Well, kinda.

Misty has the entire room painted in that lovely grey, but the built- in bookcases on either side of the bay windows facing the front of the house are a deep, dark, rich lavender.

Normally he’d put up a fight about this, but he can’t find it in himself to do so when it looks so good. Even with all the clutter and rotten furniture he hasn’t gotten rid of, it already feels like a new space.

She proceeds to drag him to the library where he tells her that,  _ no,  _ they will  _ not  _ be painting the built in bookcases lavender.

Instead they paint the room white, leave the bookcases in the same stained antique oak, and ignore the books and other mess they still haven’t picked up. 

When they stand outside the last door, other than the potions lab that Draco’s still ignoring, Misty refuses to let him in.

“Why not?”

“This room is being  _ special!” _

“That’s all the more reason for me to see it!”

“No!”

“Misty, Misty  _ please.” _

Merlin, he should really beg more often. If it works on the Head Auror  _ and  _ a devil of a house elf, who knows where it can get him.

It gets him inside a room that’s so filled with junk Draco can’t discern half of it.

“Is...is this some sort of store room?”

Misty frowns at him. “This is being Misty’s room!”

Draco blinks.

He supposes that makes sense.

There’s a little broken bed over by the corner, the only bay window that wasn’t broken upon his arrival is hidden by a big sheet, clothes of humans are strewn about, something is definitely rotting in the baskets, brown bits Draco can’t discern, and the dead plants.

Misty ignores his disgust, simply paints the room and then tries to force him out.

He doesn't budge an inch.

“Mister Draco!” She whines

“Misty!” He whines back, “You can’t live like this! How the hell do you see anything, hell,  _ how do you get to anything?!  _ We’re cleaning this out today!”

“But-”

“I  _ knew  _ I smelt something rotting from the living room, but I never thought it’d come from you!”

“Misty’s room is  _ not rotting!” _

“We’ll start with getting rid of a few things, or at least organizing and cleaning them.”

“No!”

Draco gives her a look. “You’ve made me redo half a house that I had no intention of calling my home, you made me get a new wand against my will, and if I’m going to be choosing you and this house and the  _ bloody fucking ocean,  _ we are  _ going  _ to clean this room.”

“But it’s already being two o’clock!”

“Perfect, that means we have six hours before dinner.”

Draco’s using his Perfect Voice. It worked like a charm back when he was in Hogwarts. He had a Perfect Look he’d give to the first and second years, a Perfect Glare for the third and fourth years, and a Perfect voice for the rest of them. Technically, all he’d ever needed to use was the Perfect Look to get his housemates under control. 

And now he’s here, using all three at a grumbling house elf.

“Fine.”

Draco summons the vanishing bin from the bathroom next door. If he leaves she might lock him out and he  _ refuses  _ to live in a house with something that’s decaying faster than he is.

With a spite filled annoyance, Draco and Misty start shifting through piles. They go through the trash first, finding piles of eroded plants, plates that appear to have grown their own ecosystems, and while they’re doing that Draco makes her get rid of anything that’s broken beyond a simple  _ repario,  _ things that are so old they tremble when touched. They eventually get three small empty spaces on the floor, and Draco finds two baskets that aren’t horribly disfigured and starts piling clothes into one and objects into the other.

Underneath the first layer or mess is a small toy dresser, and since Misty is looking like she’s on the verge of a panic, he tells her to take the basket full of dirty clothes and put it into the laundry machine. While she’s gone Draco finds a toy trunk and uses it to shove the rest of Misty’s torn up clothing inside. 

“Misty is not knowing how to use the machine, sir.”

“That’s okay, take these and throw them inside too.”

Misty exits the room, dragging her little trunk behind her. 

He casts an expanding charm onto the ‘object’ basket, satisfied when all the trinkets threatening to spill out disappear. Now he can really get to work.

When Misty gets back Draco can see a solid fifteen feet of floor, most of the remaining junk pushed up against the walls. There’s a particularly concerning pile over by the right corner, but he doubts Misty will actually get rid of anything if he doesn’t make her.

They go through the basket, arguing occasionally when Misty doesn’t want to throw away a stained, half rotted cloth, a broken empty picture frame that’s beyond repair, and a fucking spoon with no sentimental value.

Every now and then they come across an object that has a story.

“This is being the first coloring book Mistress ever got Misty, she wanted Misty to get good with colors so Misty could be coloring with Miss Alex.”

“This is the teddy bear Miss Alex be giving to Misty.”

“This is the painting of a wiggentree, it was being Master’s favorite.”

Draco learns that the family before them was...kind.

They didn’t just give Misty little trinkets, they made her an irreplaceable part of the family. If her broken toddler sized bed isn’t a testament to that fact, the photo album, and the half broken pink flower craft with the poorly written note of:  _ To my sissy, Misty,  _ is.

He asks her about it as he casually sets the craft into the ‘keep’ pile.

“Misty, I don’t mean to cause offence, but I...well, I was wondering how this all happened. I once offered one of my elves a winter coat because he was shivering and he was so upset he nearly bashed his skull in.”

“Misty was like that when Mistress first found her.” Misty tells him, reluctantly putting a dead….butterfly into the trash. Draco tries not to wince at his gross that is. “Mistress found Misty when Mistress was seven years old and brought her back to live at the Prynne House. Mistress’s family was always being a little off, they were coming from America with the first Mistress Hester Prynne. Mistress Hester was being a old, old lady who’s daughter was a witch, sir. Her name was being Pearl and Mistress Pearl be setting odd customs in the Prynne house. They was to be kind to everyone, sir, even little Misty. Instead of tying Misty to themselves, they be tying her to the forest of the area. They tried to explain slavery to Misty, but it never made sense, so Mistress and her mother, Emily, be giving up. Misty was always a slow learner. But they were saying Misty wouldn’t be like the other house elves. They gave Misty her own room, told Misty she was forbidden from punishment and before Misty knew it we were being at the cottage and Mistress be giving Misty a whole wardrobe!”

She goes onto another rant, about how bad Emilia was about spoiling her. As she talks about her previous owners, Draco once again gets the feeling that Misty was never an elf to any of them. More like a daughter, or maybe how Luna and Pansy were to Draco, how Draco was to Severus. Someone to cherish, someone to protect, to spoil rotten, to shower with love. 

Family.

Her little rant somehow speeds up the process, and before Draco knows it the sun is setting, the sound of calming waves fills the now clean room, and Draco already has a plan forming in his mind.

“On Monday…” Draco begins. “I’ll fix your room. I’m afraid I haven’t been myself in a very long time, and I don’t really know who I am now, but I do know that you’ve changed my life in a mere two weeks. You’ve forced me to feel human emotions again, forced me to actually care about something and I….I’d like to repay you if that’s okay.”

Misty turns her big black doe eyes on him. “Why?”

“Because I’m choosing the house. The ocean, the Prynes, I’m choosing to get my act together, to take Kingsely’s advice and give living a shot again. I’m choosing you, Misty.”

Misty tackles from the side.

“I  _ knew  _ Mister Draco was being kind!”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Saturday is the laziest Draco’s ever been in his entire life.

Misty wakes him up around noon, they drink coffee with their legs dangling off the cliff’s edge, go back inside to listen to vinyls. 

Draco sits on the floor, working with his tapestry and Misty mostly plays with Salem or tries to learn more about weaving. At some point they pour over the instructions of the washer and dryer, and while Draco isn’t a fan of walking around in his underwear anymore, he prefers his clothing to be clean, so he hides in the first floor half-bath, handing Misty his things through a narrow opening.

It takes all of five minutes to do the washing, Draco makes Misty slip him clothes through the bathroom door, still not daring to look into the mirror. After that Draco naps, he reads the rest of the books he got from Howie, lets Misty walk him through all the plants they have, lounges on the floor with Salem, enjoys the breeze from the ocean.

The day surprisingly passes quickly and calmly. Even Misty’s cooking lesson that he’s forced into is nothing but time spent together that Draco secretly cherishes.

They lie side by side on the living room floor next to the fireplace, Salem curled up on his chest, no lights save the fire, bay windows open so Draco can feel the breeze.

“Why does Mister Draco sleep on the floor?”

He thinks about the stone floors of his cell, of his bed being burned for something stupid that angered the Dark Lord, of the dungeon floors that he would find himself on. How that first time in the Manor drove him over the edge, all because he was in a bed for once.

He shrugs. “It keeps me calm.”

“It is being bad for Mister Draco’s back. He should be sleeping in a bed.”

“There isn't a single unbroken bed in this house.”

“Then he should be sleeping on the couch!”

“But the couch isn’t as close to the fireplace as the floor is.”

Misty glares at him. 

They end up falling asleep like that, the three of them lying on the floor, the ocean watching them from the window.

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


“Sweet mother of Merlin.”

Draco doesn't know if he should be offended or pleased by Kingsley’s reaction. 

The Head Auror steps into the foyer of the house, eyes darting between the new kitchen and the living room like he can’t quite believe it.

“You-you  _ moved.” _

“I didn’t just move, I fucking  _ worked.” _

“It looks good,” Kingsley claps him on the back. “Go on, give me the grand tour.”

Draco shows him the rooms he and Misty have been slaving over, explains the rest of the house, the weird ocean bit, and eventually they find themselves having tea in the living room, talking about elemental magic.

“Well it makes sense, the Prynnes were notorious for their ties to the ocean, I guess since you’re in their house now, you get tied to it too.”

“But it is not being the Prynne's house any more, it is being Master Draco’s house.” Misty says.

“So you’ve decided to stay here?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s quaint, the people are nice. I wouldn’t mind being around for a while.”

Kingsley tries to keep his face perfectly blank, but Draco can see right through him. Something like relief hangs on his shoulders, happiness sparks to life in his eyes, hope loosens the death grip of his hands on one another.

“You still look like shit,” He kindly points out.

Draco flips him off.

They end up sitting for a bit, Draco tells him about the plans for next week, Kingsley tells him about the mess the Ministry has become. 

“You should run for Minister.”

“You’re the tenth person to tell me that.” Kingsley sighs.

“Because it’s true. You don’t let personal bias get in the way of what’s right, you help people who need it, you have an  _ infuriating  _ sense of judgement. If you’re willing to go out of your way to help little ex-Death Eaters like me, I can only imagine what you’d do for the war-torn, perhaps  _ crumbling  _ English Wizarding Society.”

Kingsley rolls his eyes. “I’d have the support of the youth, that’s for sure. But you know how the older folks are.”

“You’d win them over easily. You’re just afraid.”

He gets a glare in response. 

Kingsley ends up staying late because he just  _ has  _ to see the show of Misty forcing Draco to cook. They make chicken curry, and while Draco isn’t a huge fan of spicy food, he’d learned to love this particular dish when he was visiting the Lovegoods. He hasn’t had a proper one since Luna’s mother, Pandora, died.

And somehow he and Misty make it perfectly.

“This is….not poisonous?”

Draco snorts.

“Misty would never be serving good guests poison! Mister Kingsley is being Mister Draco’s friend! It would be  _ rude  _ to be poisoning him!”

Kingsley takes a bite, nearly melting on the spot. “I apologize, this is  _ not  _ poisonous, it’s  _ delectable.” _

“Try not to drool on my table, would you?”

The three of them eat in happy silence until Salem comes in, meowing in a very  _ demanding  _ way to be held. Draco somehow ends up with the black cat sitting in his lap, which is annoying because Salem is  _ determined  _ to sneak a bit of curry and Draco can’t let them happen because he’s fairly sure that human food is bad for animals.

Eventually, with one of Draco’s arms full of Salem, they clean up and wish Kingsley a good night.

“I’ll be back next Sunday.”

“Keeping an eye on me? I feel like I’m the  _ last  _ person to be considered a threat at this point.”

Kingsley laughs, “More like making sure you don’t kill yourself when no one’s looking.”

“Misty will be keeping an eye on Mister Draco! But, Mister Kingsley, we do be having a floo! Mister isn’t needing to step into the rain.”

“A floo?”

Draco sighs, glaring at Misty who just keeps smiling. “I tried to get rid of it but the ocean won’t fucking let me! It knocks me over every time I try to fix it!”

As if called by Draco’s complaining, a breeze shifts through the open front door, slamming it shut and pushing them into the living room. 

Kingsley’s eyes widen. “You know, I thought you were joking about that.”

“I wish I was, I really wish I was.”

The ocean breeze rushes through his hair for that comment. 

“Does it really work?” Kingsley asks, eyeing the fireplace carefully. He casts a few spells that mean nothing to Draco, and then sighs. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Be careful. I’m not keen on the idea of losing my only company that isn’t Misty or a shopkeeper.” 

“Funny, I didn’t think you still had a heart underneath all that self-loathing.”

Draco resists the urge to flip him off again, instead watching as Kingsley takes a bit of floo powder from his pocket.

“Until next Sunday. Be safe, Draco. Look after him, will you Misty? I know it can be difficult at times, but Draco’s-”

“Mister Draco is being in good hands, Mister Kingsley. Misty is protecting him from the bad!”

Kingsley smiles at them, throws his floo powder into the fireplace. “Bye Draco.”

“See you Sunday.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Monday morning Draco wakes up to a mouth full of black fur and the smell of eggs.

He immediately flicks Salem’s tail out of his mouth and follows the smell, grabs a cup of coffee and joins Misty at the table.

“What is we fixing today, Mister Draco?”

“We’re starting with your room.”

Misty’s smile vanishes. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’ll still let you help. If you’d like, you can work on the library while I do your room?”

That appeases her, but not very much.

He gets dressed in his leggings and white sweater again, sighing at his lack of belongings, and then takes an inventory of everything he’ll be needing to get. 

A piece of parchment, or even a notebook would be  _ very  _ useful right about now. 

After transforming Misty in her baby-Luna appearance, they bid Salem goodbye and aparate to their favorite muggle shopping district.

The first thing Draco notes is that Misty  _ needs  _ her own bathroom. It’ll cut into the Potion’s lab, but she makes the mistake of telling him that she’s never had a nice, long, proper soak and Draco has every intention of fixing that. The second big thing that his little friend needs is a bed. A proper one. One that’s perfect for her.

They spend several hours going in and out of muggle and wizard’s shops. It takes so long that they don’t make it back to the house until three, and they left at eight. 

Draco’s fully expecting a warning note from Obsidian any day now, but it’s  _ so  _ worth it.

He makes Misty a bathroom in the mostly empty corner of her room, it’s on the small side, just enough room for a toilet, bathtub, shower, and sink, but it’s still  _ her  _ bathroom. 

He’d looked through  _ several  _ stores to find what he was looking for. A child’s claw-foot soaking tub. A simple white one, with  _ pink  _ feet. It’s so perfect Draco nearly foamed at the mouth when he saw it. He’d checked to make sure it was temperature regulating, gotten several soaks and washes to go on the little light wooden hanging shelf he put directly above the tub so everything would be within reach. And because Misty’s favorite color is pink, he’d found her a marble sink with  _ pink and golden speckles.  _ It hurt his pride to buy, but it wasn’t worse than the matching toilet seat, or the ridiculous pink towels, the pink rug, and the pink child’s robe and slipper set. Plants hang above the tub in little marcome strings, he’d begrudgingly painted the walls a nice creme color so the pink didn’t clash with it all, and he’d finished the whole look with a stupid golden mirror that opened up for things like Misty’s new pink toothbrush and tooth paste. 

Griphook better thank him for her hygiene the next time they visit.

The bathroom closes off with a white door. Draco spells it pink from the outside, and then sets on the rest of the room.

Misty’s horrible light blush walls actually go pretty well with the dark pink door, actually. 

He sets her bed in the little nook by the bathroom. Little white bedside tables spring up on either side of the white metal frame bed. The frame itself goes up in little wite flower swirls to make a house shape. Draco hangs the big pothos he got from a muggle plant nursery above the bed, winging the vines around the middle of the house-like frame. Then he spells the disgusting dusty blush bedding on the mattress, frames it with some dusty golden pillows and a white crochet blanket.

Next he places the dusty pink papasan rattan chair in the far corner so that it looks out the windows. He vanishes the holy sheet, lets light flood into the room momentarily until he can get the wispy white curtain up. A white bookshelf goes up next to the chair, filling itself with the books from Misty’s ‘keep’ basket. 

He steps over to the wall that connects with the hallway, spells three little open cube organizers into place. The tops of the organizers only reach Draco’s waist, so they should be a perfect height for Misty. A faded golden mirror goes above the top of the organizers, hanging plants on either side. 

On top of the organizer, Draco puts some of Misty’s more precious items. The teddy bear from Alex, the framed photo of her with the Prynnes, a wiggentree cutting, a few little sculptures she refused to part with. Draco hangs the wiggentree painting from Gordan next to the bookshelf, spells the pink fluffy oval rug into place, and then adds a round rattan chest below the wiggentree painting, stuffing it full of children- or Misty- sized blankets.

Then he sets himself on the floor and starts sorting Misty’s shit into cube baskets.

All toys that were either given to her or left in the ruin of the Prynne family goes into the first two baskets, what Draco thinks is crafting material goes into another, plant tools into the next one, and the last four Draco leaves empty but shoves into their respective cubby holes anyways. Now that the bottom eight cubes of Misty’s organizer are filled, Draco places the rest of Misty’s weird little objects on the top row. 

Finally he spells a magic-induced walk-in child’s closet into place next to the bathroom door, spells all of Misty’s clothing inside, and takes a look around.

It’s very…. _ pink.  _ But Draco likes it. He hopes Misty feels the same.

She’s waiting outside the door.

“Can Misty see yet?”

“Misty can.”

For all of five minutes Misty is speechless, and then, to Draco’s continued confusion about elf emotions, she bursts into tears.

She liked the dress, but she cried over that too. Does that mean she likes the room? Or does she hate it? Did he over do it with the rattan? Or is there too much pink? Misty  _ loves  _ pink!

“Don’t cry, Misty. Do you like it? If you don’t we can change it, it’s not a big deal, really!”

_ “Change it?!”  _ Misty shrieks, “It is being  _ perfect!  _ Misty wouldn’t change a thing! Misty has no idea how to  _ thank  _ Mister Draco! She-  _ no one  _ has ever been doing this for Misty! Not even, not even  _ Mistress!” _

She flings her little body onto Draco’s leg, but Draco’s pretty used to it by now. He takes it in stride, hugging her back and showing her all the nifty things he got to help her room  _ never  _ be messy again. When he shows her the bathroom and all the little soaks, Misty cries so hard she starts choking and Draco has to pat her back until she can breathe again. 

As he’s explaining how the bookshelf can expand if she gets too many to fit, she gasps and tugs him out of the room and to the library.

Draco….

Draco is  _ speechless.  _

The built in bookshelves have been polished to perfection, the once dusty window seats have turned into comfortable dark green perches, complete with golden, purple, and maroon pillows. In the one corner that’s not filled with a bookshelf is a big, extremely comfortable looking, chair-like, off white, sort of cloud-like square bean bag chair. A little light wooden table sits next to it, a plant and a maroon coaster on it. In the center of the room is a lovely, sort of maroon moroccan rug that fits perfectly with the window seats. Misty’s put a few white poofs around the room in front of the bookshelves that are on the left and right walls. On the walls with the archway leading to the hallway, Misty’s found some more of those linework paintings that Draco likes, plants on either side of the archway. 

It’s  _ beautiful. _

Even if most of the bookshelves are mostly empty.

“Misty was having to take away most of the books, sir. They were being ruined, but she was keeping the good ones, and she hasn’t  _ actually  _ thrown away the bad books, they is just waiting for Mister Draco to look through.”

“You...holy  _ shit,  _ Misty. This is…”

“Is it being good?” Misty asks, a hopefully little pleased tone in her voice.

“It’s  _ perfect.” _

Misty beams at him.

She explains that she can’t throw away anything that Draco doesn’t give her permission to toss out because it’s  _ his  _ house and therefore  _ his  _ stuff. Draco protests this as they make dinner.

It’s more  _ Misty’s  _ house than it is his, but Misty insists that the house has chosen Draco, so he ends up shifting through books as she cooks, tossing the useless ones into the vanishing kitchen bin, making note of their names if they seem interesting so he can replace them.

When he’s finally done, he’s thoroughly exhausted, and ready to pass out on the floor.

Salem’s already in his spot, curled into Draco’s arm. Misty’s enjoying her bath, the lights are all out, Draco can see the stars through the living room windows.

He’s half asleep when Misty comes in, clad in her ridiculous pink robe that fits her perfectly. She even has her little slippers on.

“Mister Draco should not be sleeping on the floor!”

“It’s fine, Misty-”

“Misty will not be sleeping in her bed until Mister Draco stops sleeping on the floor!”

Merlin help him.

He does  _ one nice thing… _

“There isn’t a bed for me to sleep on.”

“Then Mister Draco should be sleeping on the couch!”

“I’m too dirty to sleep on the couch.”

“He can be washing in Misty’s bath!”

“It’s too small for me to fit in.”

“Then he should be sleeping in a chair!”

Draco sighs. “Well, I can’t sleep at all right now, so this argument is going nowhere.”

He can’t  _ see  _ Misty because he closed his eyes when she started protesting, but he can feel the weight of her glare.

“Mistress be saying that a good book be putting anyone to bed!”

There’s no winning against a determined Misty, so Draco lugs himself and Salem off the floor, following her into the library. He sinks into the window seats, not wanting to get the bean bag chair dirty, and lets Misty pick a book out for him.

She hands him a title called  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ by some muggle named Jane Austen. 

Draco raises an eyebrow at her. 

“I have my book, are you going to bed now?”

Misty hesitates. “Is….is that being okay? Misty is not wanting to leave Mister Draco. She was going to work on the tapestry until Mister Draco was being sleeping.”

“I’ll be fine, Misty. Salem’s with me, and I didn’t put that bed together for you to sleep in a chair.”

Misty lingers by the door, Draco sighs.

“I’m serious, Misty, go to bed. That mattress is charmed to regulate your temperature,  _ and  _ adjust to what your body needs for the perfect night’s rest. Go. Let me know how it is in the morning.”

She ends up bringing him a cup of tea with lavender and chamomile a few minutes later, but does eventually, after a  _ lot  _ of prodding, go to her own bed.

Once he hears her door click shut he opens the book.

Immediately, within the first chapter, he takes a  _ strong  _ disliking to Miss. Bennet. She reminds him of his father, pushing people to do things they don’t want to. Like get married. Have an heir. Take the Dark Mark.

He ends up finishing the whole book, hating how happy he is for Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. Naturally, reading has only woken him up more. So, because Salem is asleep on his lap, he summons another book.

He finishes several books that night, with varying opinions on each of them.

_ Weathering Heights  _ he finds to be amusing and slightly irritating, Heathcliff also reminds him of his father, albeit in a more dramatic way. Really, the whole thing is so packed full of obscene drama that is has Draco laughing at points, though he does sympathize with poor Catherine.

He’s enraged at the discrimination Boo faces in  _ To Kill a Mocking Bird.  _ He can’t believe there are idiots out there who think  _ skin color  _ makes a person less of a person. But, to be fair, he also can’t believe that there are some wizards who think that being  _ muggleborn  _ makes other wizards less powerful.

They clearly haven’t met one Hermione Granger.

In his efforts to find a good book to fall asleep to, he ends up reading _The Great Gatsby,_ _Jane Eyre, Little Women, The Odyssey,_ and _The Picture of Dorain Grey._

Eventually, when the sun is starting to come up, a little blue ball wanders into the room and smacks repeatedly against a certain book. Draco summons it with a sigh and glares at the title.

Another muggle book, probably with some horrid twist or a lesson to learn. Or, even worse, another muggle book that will remind him of his father.

_ The Importance of Being Earnest. _

Draco immediately likes the book. It’s funny, witty, and at points downright hysterical. Seriously, who the hell lies about their name and turns it into  _ earnest.  _ It’s an obvious lie.

By the end of it, Draco is yawning.

He’s slipped down as he read, lying fully on the window seat. At some point Salem has ended up on his chest.

With the sunlight and Salem warming him, Draco eventually falls asleep, his book slipping onto the floor with the others.

  
  
  
  


\----------


	3. One Day At A Time

Misty, apparently knowing that he barely slept, lets him take the day off.

Well, kinda. 

She makes him help with breakfast, then sends him to curl up in the library for another nap. When he wakes they work on the tapestry, Draco on the left side and Misty on the right side. After a few too many finger pricks, they have a small lunch in the sunroom. Misty rants about the plants, how she’d eventually like to have more.

“Does Mister Draco be having any hobbies?”

“I have a few,” Draco shrugs.

Misty motions him to keep talking, Draco sighs.

“I like to sew, obviously, my best friend taught me how, and when I’m working with needles I always think of her. My other best friend and I used to have this stupid reading competitions, him and I got into  _ countless  _ arguments over how good a book was. My mum was fond of the piano, so I took that up so I could play with her. My godfather was a Potion’s Master, and I loved potions, so that took up a pretty large portion of my life before….well, before my fifth year.”

“What about Mister Draco’s father?”

Draco flinches, but Misty is looking at him with her big round eyes that demand the whole truth, so he sets down his plate.

“My father…..is a right bastard. He was interested in politics and business, he taught me to make the masses bow at my feet. I can strike a deal faster than you can blink, I know every wizarding law in the books, I can tell you the exact number of seats each family has in the Wizengamot, who they are, why they got them, and how to get them to vote with whatever I want. He….he turned me into a bully. Taught me that anyone who wasn’t my ally was an enemy to be crushed. Made me punish elves, taught me to  _ hate  _ muggles, to  _ force  _ my way into a high standing. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t have any hobby other than being a complete purist asshole.”

“But you is not being that.” Misty says. “You is  _ loving  _ muggle shops, you is liking plants, and sewing, and you even be liking cooking and fixing the rooms.” She stares at her plate for a bit, and then nods. “Mister Draco’s father is being a bad man. He be causing Mister Draco hurt, he is  _ not  _ allowed into Mister Draco’s house. The ocean won’t let him in.”

Draco makes to snort, but a light breeze flutters through the room, like the ocean is agreeing.

Suddenly, he’d kinda like to see Lucius take a step towards his little cottage. Maybe the ocean would blow him right on his ass, or maybe, just maybe, it would push him right over the edge.

Better him than Draco.

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  
  


Draco stays up far too late reading again.

He goes through  _ A Tale of Two Cities, Frankenstein, Dracula _ _ , The Scarlet Letter,  _ and finally falls asleep to the absurdity of  _ The Hobbit.  _ None of the books come  _ close  _ to the real magical world, and it’s something that Draco finds strangely endearing and slightly amusing.

Misty does not take mercy on him again.

She wakes him up only hours after he falls asleep, right at elven on the dot.

“Mister Draco is forming bad habits.”

“Lemme alone.”

“No! We is running  _ behind,  _ Mister Draco! We should be working on the upstairs right now! But instead we is a  _ whole day  _ behind!”

Draco mumbles something about it not mattering, and then Misty waves a cup of coffee in front of him and he’s wide awake.

After two cups of coffee and some toast, Draco finds himself in Howie’s shop again.

“Draco! How’s the washer and dryer? Is it everything I’ve imagined? We ran out before I could take a pair home, but I keep dreaming about them.” Howie sighs wistfully, “Are they beautiful? Wonderful? A perfect assent to modern wizard living?”

Misty launches into a full rant that Howie eagerly listens to.

If Draco doesn’t stop them they’ll go on for hours, so after forty minutes he clears his throat. “We’re here today to redo an office.”

“And a Potion’s Lab!”

Draco glares at Misty. “I told you I want nothing to do with that.”

“Then Misty will be doing it.”

_ “Or  _ we could get rid of it.”

“But Mister Draco loves potions! He should be having his Potion’s Lab!”

Draco glares even harder. 

He doesn’t  _ want  _ a Potion’s Lab, he  _ wants  _ his godfather’s Potion’s Lab. Wants his godfather in general. Wants to see Severus sneer at the amount of pink in his house, see him cook something that isn’t awful, rant over stupid muggle books with him, praise him for finally taking an interest in plants like a proper potioneer should. Wants to curl up in front of the fireplace and listen to Severus tell him more stories about his mother’s school days.

He wants his godfather to pat him on the head again, to laugh at him, hell, at this point he’d even take one of Severus’s disappointed looks, or even his glare.

He'd take anything if it meant he could see Severus again.

But Severus is dead.

And Draco doesn’t want a stupid Potion’s Lab that will constantly remind him of this fact.

“How about….how about we focus on Draco’s office for now and return to the, um,  _ other issue  _ later?” Howie says, ever the peacekeeper.

Misty seems pacified enough for now.

Draco knows she’ll be guilting him the second they get home, so, after getting what they need and a few things they don’t need from Howie’s, Draco dresses her up in her baby-Luna human look and takes her to muggle Edinburgh.

He takes special care to shop for several hours, going to a fucking electronics store of all things. He ends up buying a fucking muggle  _ computer  _ just to keep Misty from bothering him about the lab.

When they do finally get back to house it’s well past five, and he purposefully takes as long as possible to set up the office.

In the dark lavender bookshelves, Misty places several books Draco got. Things like  _ Computers for Dummies, Advanced Runes,  _ a few self-help books she got when Draco wasn’t looking,  _ Plants and What They Like, How to Care for your Kneazle,  _ and a few more scholarly texts. She places his sewing and knitting things in the dark lavender cabinets, realizes what time it is, and then rushes off to make dinner.

Meanwhile, Draco puts his light wooden desk in, taking care to make sure his forest green swivel chair has it’s back to the wall. He wants to be able to see everything when he’s sitting, and from that position he can see out the windows  _ and  _ into the hallway. No sneaking up on him, thank you very much. 

Granted, this does make the computer much harder to deal with as there are a lot of wires Draco has to magically hide, he has to get out Howie’s home improvement books to make a plug in the wall, and he’s honestly not sure it’ll work with a muggle computer, but he’ll deal with that later. 

Instead he places light grey seats along the windows in between the two bookshelves, sets the light wooden coffee table he got into place, and then hangs up his abstracts and impression paintings. All that’s left is the extra light grey bookcase he got for some of his trinkets, the muggle pens and pencils and their green pencil holder, the quills and their purple quill holder, whatever a stapler is, a few notebooks and the calendar he got that’s completely useless because he has no idea what the date is. Finally, he tries the light switch to make sure the purple scone lights hanging from the ceiling work, throws some plants, a grey rug, and a few sculptures into place.

He sighs when it’s all done.

There’s no avoiding it now.

Misty’s waiting for him in the kitchen. Already at the table, two untouched plates in front of her, little hands fidgeting.

“Misty-”

“Misty is being sorry, Mister Draco.”

Huh?

“Misty was not realizing that working on the Potion’s Lab might be making Mister Draco sad. She was overstepping and is sorry…”

“It’s fine-”

_ “But.” _

Oh, there it is. For a second there Draco really thought he’d wiggled his way out of it.

“But,” Misty continues, “Misty is wishing for Mister Draco to hear her out.”

Draco sits down, eyeing her warily. “I’m...tentatively listening.”

“Misty is thinking….well, sir, she be thinking that it is being bad for Mister Draco to stop doing potions. Potions make Mister Draco happy, and if Mister Draco’s godfather were being here, Misty is sure he would be saying the same thing, sir. Mister Draco’s godfather would be sad if Mister Draco stopped brewing. If it was something that Mister Draco and Mister Draco’s godfather was doing together, then Mister Draco should keep doing it so that Mister Draco’s godfather is being honored. Misty is sure that he would be sad if all of his and Mister Draco’s hard work were to be going away, and Misty is  _ sure  _ that Mister Draco would be happier if he continued something that made him happy.”

Draco thinks about Severus.

About his pride when Draco got something right. How he and Draco would quiz each other whenever he had a paper due. How Draco would  _ demand  _ to brew with him, so Severus got him child-proof safety gear and gave him his first lesson. How Severus would laugh when their experiments blew up in their faces. How he used to joke about Draco throwing his family business away and joining him in the Potion’s Field. How after every session, even in Hogwarts, they would share mint tea and chocolate-chip cookies. 

He thinks about Severus shielding him from his father’s rage with long weekends in the Potion’s Lab. It became a safe haven for him.

_ Severus  _ had been a safe haven for him.

He was furious when he realized Draco had been forced into taking The Mark. He’d offered Draco a way out, always prioritizing his safety over everyone else’s, even his own. He’d kept Draco safe, healed him after the Dark Lord’s punishments. When Greyback clawed him, Severus had personally tried to kill the werewolf, only stopping with the Dark Lord commanded him to. 

Severus was more a father than Lucius could ever hope to be.

He looks into Misty’s black eyes and vividly remembers Severus’s black eyes smiling at him when he made his first potion correctly.

“I….I’ll think about it.”

  
  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  
  


Draco awakes from his dream with a start.

He can’t remember most of it, but he remembers seeing dead black eyes and his godfather’s greasy hair.

He’s up before Misty, so he mindlessly makes breakfast and coffee.

She joins him right as he finishes plating the eggs.

“Mister Draco?”

“We’re doing the lab today.” 

Misty doesn’t say another word.

She hands him his freshly washed favorite blue sweater, his leggings that he loves, and waits outside the office as he dresses.

Draco doesn’t comment when she takes his hand as they apparate away.

He’s not sure he can handle talking today.

Misty takes charge, telling Howie what they’re here for. Howie takes one look at him, nods, and then escorts them to the lab aisle.

“I’m afraid I don’t have actual  _ material,  _ just some walls, flooring, and shelves.”

Misty gets stone flooring charmed to withstand a dragon, matching walls, and a few light wooden shelves. 

Howie throws in a free plant and a book called  _ Coping with Loss.  _

Draco doesn’t even blink at it.

He does, however, nearly have a panic attack when Misty takes him into the apothecary.

It’s so bad that the lady behind the counter has to sit him down and give him a cup of water.

“Lose someone in the war?”

Draco nods.

He lost a lot in the war.

“That’s okay...I lost my sister, she used to run this shop, I’m afraid I don’t actually know much about potions, but I couldn’t just let her memory go to waste, you know?”

Draco looks up to take a good look at her. 

She can’t be more than twenty. A short, snubby nose, blue bob, and bright brown eyes. She, thankfully, doesn’t look like a single person he knows.

It makes breathing a little easier.

“My godfather......he was a Potion’s Master.”

She smiles softly at him. “My sister was a year out from getting her Mastery. Our parents...well, they're muggles so they never really got it, but I was always proud of her. Always pushed her towards her dreams. It sucks knowing how close she came.”

They sit on the floor for a bit in the empty apothecary, just breathing and taking up space. Misty has mysteriously disappeared, and Draco’s dreading something bad happening to her, but he just can’t move.

“My name’s June,” The lady says after a minute. “You?”

“Draco.”

“Well, Draco, I think it’s high time we get you off the floor. You’re here to honor your godfather’s memory, right? That means we’ve got to get you the good stuff. Only the best for a godson of a Potion’s Master.”

June really knows  _ nothing  _ about potions, so Draco ends up teaching her about the items he gets. 

“Goblin gloves are actually better than Dragon Hide ones because goblin gloves protect against  _ everything  _ and Dragon Hide ones are just protection against fire.”

“Silver and iron knives are better than plain silver or plain iron. Never, and I mean  _ never,  _ use a kitchen knife when making potions. Bits of the metal with mingle with ingredients, trust me, it’s not a good thing.”

He gets four different cauldrons, explaining that sometimes one simply needs an iron cauldron, a brass cauldron, a pewter cauldron, and that self-stirring cauldrons save everyone a lot of time. She gives him a look, Draco moves onto the next shelf, selecting a mortar and pestle made of marble because it’s the purest, and therefore not likely to mess with ingredients. Brass scales need no explanation, neither do the sheer amount of vials that he gets. 

Well, he thinks the vials need no explanation.

“Why so many?”

“We currently have none, and my godfather told me that one should always have potions on hand.”

He gets a bucket of each ingredient because he’s going to be brewing a lot today, and then a few books in case he forgot anything. He doubts he has, Severus taught him nearly every potion in existence, but it never hurts to have a refresher.

Misty meets him outside with her own extended shopping bag hidden behind her back.

“What do you have?”

“It is being a surprise!”

They run into the wandmaker and his kid on their way to the local bakery. Somehow Draco gets caught up in conversation, as Willie demands to know more about potions and Sal wants to know how his wand is treating him.

When they part ways, Draco with a blueberry scone and Misty with a strawberry muffin, Misty makes a joke about him making friends.

He briefly considers letting her apparate back to the cottage on her own, but ends up doing it for her because her little hands are full and he’s not an asshole.

Once they’re back, Misty, surprisingly, doesn’t make him start right away. Instead they have a small lunch, play around with Salem, and when the clock strikes three, Draco can’t avoid it any longer.

The time period from three until six was Severus’s favorite.

Even at Hogwarts, where he was mostly miserable and  _ extremely  _ hard to be around sometimes. Something about the sun in the sky faded away the lingering stress of afternoon classes. The two of them would find themselves in the potion’s labs, tinkering away, the sunset gently casting a glow over the room from the windows Severus always left open.

Today, Severus is not here. 

He is not in the room when Draco finally opens the door.

He doesn’t scold Draco for leaving his History class early.

He doesn’t sigh in that fond yet annoyed way of his.

He doesn’t pull out an extra stool, ignore the extra cauldron he’s already prepared because he  _ knew  _ Draco would be coming, and tell him to hurry up.

He is dead.

But the sunlight isn’t.

And the sunlight, combined with the ocean breeze from the last broken window on the first floor and the little blue ball behind him, push him into the room, sealing the door behind him.

He starts with the walls and flooring, stone that Misty picked out and Draco couldn’t protest because Severus’s lab was made completely from cobblestone.

Then he vanishes wooden shelves, adding the new ones that have titanium alloys so none of the bottles tarnish. 

Empty bottles fill the wooden shelves in neat, perfectly aligned lines. Severus always said it was the easiest way to find everything, and while there’s nothing to find yet, Draco can’t bring his hands to position the bottles any other way.

He moves to position the cabinets, one light wooden one for ingredients that won’t expire, and one metal and glass one that is literally made for the ones that do.

Above them he hangs two more shelves, gently placing the four cauldrons he bought, and the two he kept from Emilia because pure gold and pure obsidian cauldrons are too rare to throw out and he can fix them later. On the bottom one he aligns his knives and gloves.

To the right, by the window facing the front of the house, Draco adds a small wooden bookshelf, plopping the few books he’d gotten into place.

A work station, a simple pale wooden desk with a stone middle, springs to life in the center of the room. Draco spells the runes to create fire into place, a task he’s done since his first potion ever because fire from wood or coal can contaminate the potion and runes never mess with anything that they’re not intended to mess with. 

It leaves an ancient, almost alien looking red script in the middle of his work bench, but Draco doesn’t mind. 

The runes remind him of Severus.

Of how proud he’d been when Draco finally memorized them.

He shakes his mind clear, and adds in the final touches.

Misty seems to think that every room needs at least two plants, so Draco had broken down and gotten a potted althea to keep his mind calm and a slightly larger potted shrivelfig because the fruits are known to produce happiness, something that Draco is running low on. He places both of the rather large plants by the windows in the room, one on his left and one on his right. Next he places the black out curtains that only show light when parted. He keeps the one on the window facing the front yard closed, but the one on the window facing the ocean he leaves open.

Because he knows first hand how annoying standing for long periods of time when keeping an eye on a potion can be, he’d gotten a stool. Severus would’ve thought him mad for bringing anything other than a plane, backless, wooden one into a potion’s lab, but in the end Draco’s ‘stool’ is more a comfortable high sitting lounge chair. One that reminds him of Severus’s green reading chair that he  _ thought  _ no one knew about.

All that’s left to do is add a few protection runes to the floor, almost making a carpet by the time he’s done and that’s it.

He’s done with his lab.

And it’s all  _ his.  _

It’s not Hogwarts’ labs. There are too many windows and calm feelings rushing through him.

It’s not Emilia’s lab. Too many perfectly placed bottles and ingredients that are  _ labeled,  _ books that aren’t  _ dogeared,  _ and absolutely no weird paintings he’d found on the floor when he first entered.

But it’s also not Severus’s lab. The wood here is light and inviting, not cherry wood to cover up any spilled blood. It’s not big, not filled to the brim with obscure ingredients, dangerous artifacts, and his godfather hastily locking cabinets so he doesn't hurt himself.

No, this lab is not anything but Draco’s lab.

And that thought somehow gets him brewing late into the evening.

By the time Misty deems it clear enough to check on him, he’s on his fourth potion. Vials of a basic healing potion, Calming Draught, and burn healing paste contained in their prelabeled spot.

He’s planning on brewing the basic necessities tonight, all the things that he regularly used at some point. 

He makes blood replenishers, many,  _ many  _ vials of Oblivious Unctions, even more vials of the peace draught, some Dreamless Sleep and Drowsiness Draughts, he’s in the middle of making Murtlap Essence when Misty finally makes him stop and drags him to the library.

“It is being noon now, Mister Draco, you should be resting.”

“But it’s already past noon.” Draco says. “I didn’t start on the lab until after three.”

Misty gives him a long, suffering look, throwing a blanket over him. “Mister Draco is being working through the night. It is being Thursday and Mister Draco should be resting.”

Huh.

Funny how time can fly by like that.

He vaguely remembers Severus telling him that he always lost track of the stupid concept.

Draco falls asleep to the sounds of Salem’s purring and a memory of a day long lost where Severus had carried him to bed, complaining about his sleep schedule while he tucked a much younger, much more innocent Draco in.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


They don’t work on the house on Friday because Misty lets him sleep a full twenty four hours and when he finally blinks himself away from oblivion she makes him eat.

He immediately locks himself in the lab and doesn’t come out until the shelves are fully stocked.

It’s around five in the morning, Misty is angrier than he’s ever seen her.

“-is it being like Mister Draco doesn't even  _ care  _ about his health! He hasn’t been washing  _ once  _ since he’s being here and Misty  _ will not stand for it!  _ Mister Draco should be sleeping! He should be  _ resting!  _ He should be  _ washing! And he should not be spending eleven straight hours brewing!” _

All three of the glowing blue balls hover by her, clearly on her side, but Draco is excited so he picks her up and spins her around, surprising the rant right out of her.

“I know I’ve done a bad thing, but come look!”

He drags her into the lab, three glowing balls and Salem trailing behind him, and then proceeds to give the lot of them a full lecture on all their potions and why they’re useful.

Misty cuts him off at seven, forcing him into the library to nap.

It, strangely, only takes seconds for him to fall asleep.

He dreams of good things for once.

Of oceans, of Severus’s smile, Pansy’s laugh, Blaise’s snarky comebacks. He dreams of his mother’s hugs, of his cousin’s airy voice, of his own little home, complete with an annoyed Misty and a cuddly Salem. He dreams of forgiveness in beautiful emerald eyes, of acceptance in places he never dared look. He dreams of  _ happiness  _ so vibrant he can taste it.

It gets weird when he starts dreaming about Kingsley. 

But the more he realizes that his dream world is fading, the more it makes sense.

“-hasn’t had his own potion's lab, he’ll get better after a few days, just let him get used to it.”

“Misty is not being upset about the lab, sir, Misty is being  _ upset  _ because Mister Draco doesn’t be caring about his health!”

“He hasn’t had a reason to care for a good two years now, Misty. Like I said, just let him get used to it.”

“Two years?”

Draco forces his eyes open before Kingsley can give his whole life story to the elf. He slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, quickly glancing at the sunset outside, the two slightly furious faces in front of him, and Salem still curled up on his lap.

“Hello.”

Kingsley sighs. “Draco-”

“I know, I know. Stop rotting away, don’t die, I’ll have you know that neither of those things were in my mind when I was brewing, and Misty has already ripped me a new one, so can we  _ please  _ skip the lecture so I can show you something cool?”

Kingsley, having a heart that is sometimes  _ way  _ too soft, just nods in defeat. 

Draco drags him to the lab first purely because it’s closer, and not at all because he’s a little, just a tad bit, excited to show off what he’s done. 

Granted, Kingsley gets bored in all of five minutes, so Draco reluctantly shows him into the office where he stops dead on his feet.

“Misty….what is that?”

Instead of his strange muggle computer that he still hasn’t gotten around to playing with, some sort of replacement is there with a bigger screen, no wires, and weird runes that he doesn’t recognize decorating the back.

“Misty told Mister Draco that she was getting him a surprise!”

“Yes,” Draco creeps up to the weird thing. “But what-”

“It’s a wizard’s computer, Draco. We’ve got ‘em at the Ministry. They’re  _ supposed  _ to be confidential.” Kingsley says, glaring a little at Misty who just shrugs.

“Anything is possible when you is being nice to people, Mister Kingsley.”

Before Draco can get wound up in his new toy, or let Kingsley start lecturing them both, Misty drags them both to the kitchen, forcing them both to help with dinner.

Tonight is a mere chicken salad that Misty cools with a snap of her fingers, making Draco and Kingsley toast croissant buns because that’s apparently all they’re good for.

When they take a seat at the table, Kingsley surprises him by dropping a big parcel onto the top.

“Hope you didn’t think we’d forget.”

“We? Forget what?” Draco carefully asks around a mouthful of food.

Kingsley gives him a look. “Your mother and I….you do know what day it is, right?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“That’s not what I- _ the day of the month,  _ Draco.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, pointedly ignoring Misty’s giggles. “Why would I need to know that?”

“Maybe to know that it’s June fifth?”

Oh.

Well, isn’t that interesting.

It feels like just yesterday the war was ending, he was being thrown into Azkaban and Draco knows he was in there for a good month, just like he knows that he’s been at the cottage for three weeks and still it doesn’t make sense how time just...went on.

Shouldn’t they still be in March? Shouldn’t they still be stuck in the castle, held permanently in place by the sight of Harry  _ fucking  _ Potter dueling with Lord Voldemort? Shouldn’t they be-

“Happy Birthday, Draco.”

_ “Birthday?!”  _ Misty’s scream startles both him and Salem. “It is being Mister Draco’s  _ birthday  _ and he  _ didn’t tell Misty?!” _

“To be fair I don’t think he noticed.” Kingsley wryly points out.

And Draco...Draco is still fairly shocked by the whole thing.

Misty still talking about something but he can’t really focus on anything because he’s stuck in time it seems. A fifteen year old receiving a letter. Being told the horrid news that he couldn’t escape even if he tried. A sixteen year old just wanting everything to  _ stop. _

How the hell did he even  _ make it  _ to being eighteen? Shouldn’t he be dead by now? It seems like a cruel joke of the universe to keep him living for so long.

A breeze from the ocean startles him enough to tune back in to Misty’s big black eyes that clearly just asked him something.

“Right, yes, of course.” He says purely out of habit.

Misty beams and Kingsley frowns. Draco has no idea what he’s just gotten himself into.

“Go! Go! Misty will be meeting Misters in the living room! And then we can have presents and tea and Mister Draco can be showing Mister Kingsley the room he made for Misty!”

She practically forces them out of the kitchen with a snap of her fingers.

“Do you know what you just agreed to?” Kingsley asks him as they sit.

“No? But it’s Misty so I doubt I’ll hate it.”

Kingsley fights back a laugh, trying to remain as serious as possible. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve just opted to let Misty furnish, decorate, and force you into the master bedroom while  _ you  _ are going to be at a wizard’s spa.”

Draco blinks.

Once, twice, a third time and then-

_ “No.  _ No- I-  _ please  _ tell me you’re joking!”

Kingsley doesn’t bother hiding his laugh this time. “I’m afraid not.” He says gravely, then immediately bursts into laughter.

It’s the exact second Misty comes bustling into the room with tea in one hand and Salem in the other. “Oh, Mister Draco! Misty is so excited that you is allowing her to help! She  _ promises  _ to make the bestest, most  _ perfect room  _ for Mister Draco! Just like Mister Draco did for her!” She turns those big doe eyes on Kingsley. “Mister Draco be making Misty a  _ bathroom! With a soaker!” _

Kingsley raises an eyebrow.

Draco shrugs. “She said she’d never had a bath and that seemed like a crime against humanity.”

He laughs, tossing the package Draco’s way and Draco just sighs and comes to terms with the fact that Misty, once again, is going to get her way.

He’s not…. _ keen  _ to sleep in the same bedroom that Emilia and Garon once slept in. In fact, he’s rather against the notion. It seems rude, like an insult to them, but he’s a little more preoccupied that he’s, apparently, willingly signed up for a spa day.

A spa day where someone will have full access to his body. His scars, his face, his  _ fucking Dark Mark. _

Draco heaves a heavy sigh. 

_ One thing at a time.  _

The presents inside the bundle are a book on herbology from Kingsley and some of those lemon squares his mother knows he loves.

He should  _ really  _ read her letter.

He  _ should  _ go see her. He has a working floo for Merlin’s sake, she’s not even  _ at  _ the stupid bloody Manor, he has no excuses  _ not  _ to.

But for some reason the idea of opening this weird, nonsensical, perhaps... _ joyful  _ new life just feels wrong. Like if he shows anyone it might come crumbling down around him.

He hasn’t felt anything pleasant in so long. Everything that could’ve, that  _ should’ve  _ been good was ripped from him when he was fifteen for fuck’s sake. 

So, as he stands to show off Misty’s room, Draco decides that he’ll be selfish for just a bit longer. He’ll let Misty boss him around, he’ll chat with Howie when he visits the store, he’ll cook dinner with a house elf and the Head Auror on Sundays and come to terms with the fact that the universe might be keeping him alive for some unknown purpose.

He’ll enjoy it, just for a bit longer, and then he’ll deal with all the responsibilities he shrugged off when he entered his little safe haven.

He’ll learn to call this place home and  _ mean  _ it. He’ll take care of the plants, carefully collect books, organize his potions bottles, maybe even cook without Misty’s help one day.

For now he watches Misty excitedly show off her bed and it’s ‘cool’ charms while Kingsley tries not to burst with pride.

_ One thing at a time. _

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Draco tries very, very,  _ very  _ hard to remember how wonderful and lovely Misty is as she shoves him into a small shop called ‘Carla’s Relaxation Station’.

If the name isn’t an insult, the bright pink carpets are.

“Just a moment!” A voice calls from the back.

The funniest thing is that Draco  _ knows  _ that voice from somewhere. He just can’t place it at the moment, with Misty vibrating at his side.

She kept him up into the wee hours of the morning, asking a zillion questions from what type of sheets he likes to demanding the truth for why, exactly, he’s so adamant about sleeping on the floor- or most recently, his little perch in the library.

Disclosing the information that he sleeps on the floor, or in awkward positions, because he got used to sleeping on the freezing tiles of Azkaban with Dementors just  _ vying  _ for a chance to suck his sanity away only strengthened her notion that Draco  _ needs  _ a spa day.

He doesn’t, just so the record is clear.

Frankly, he’d rather be back at the Manor than entertaining Misty’s most recent wish, especially when a bright head of honey curls emerges from one of the closed blue doors and it all comes flooing back.

Blue eyes widen in shock, her mouth falls right open, hands dropping to her side as the smile she previously wore morphs into shock.

“Draco Malfoy.”

_ Merlin. _

It’s like that night is happening all over again.

Instead of glaring at plush pink rugs and listening to Misty gush about how  _ pretty  _ they are, Draco suddenly is rushed back to a forest. A village is burning in the distance and he’s pushing children as far away as he can, urging them to just  _ go, please  _ before someone finds them, before someone finds  _ him.  _ It’s smoke and the sounds of the Killing Curse, it’s crying babies quickly being shushed, it’s teenagers apparating away with three people at a time, it’s the same blue eyes looking at him with the same shock.

“Carla Taylor.” Draco breathes back, surprised when her face brightens, a smile much more real than the first one gracing her face.

“You is knowing each other?! Misty is  _ so happy!  _ Mister Draco be needing more friends, he only is having one and that one only comes on Sundays, and it is being a  _ shame  _ because Mister Draco is always happier after Mister-”

_ “Misty!”  _ Draco whines, completely and utterly mortified. 

To her credit, Carla just laughs, light and airy like she has no qualms whatsoever about an ex-Death Eater in her shop.

Misty turns to him with her big black eyes, effectively keeping him from covering his face in shame by taking them into her own.

“Misty will be here to fetch Mister Draco as soon as the time is being up.” She tells him, far too seriously for the context. “She’ll be making Mister Draco’s room as perfect as he be making hers,  _ and  _ she’ll be getting Mister Draco’s bathroom done too!”

“Misty,” He tries again, fondness dripping through his exasperation.

“No buts, Mister Draco! The ocean and Mistress is saying that Mister Draco is  _ needing  _ a bed! She is  _ sad  _ that Mister Draco has not been taking what the house is wanting to give him!”

“The ocean or Emilia?” Draco mutters.

“Both! But it is being no worries! Mister Draco will be in the hands of Misses Carla and Misses Carla  _ will  _ be taking care of Mister Draco while Misty is gone.”

“Misty!” Draco gasps, completely horrified by the threatening tone in her voice. “We can’t-you can’t just  _ threaten people like that!” _

“I can if they is hurting Mister Draco! Mister King-”

She is, thankfully, cut off by the sound of Carla’s laughter. It sounds a bit like bells, Draco finds it oddly amusing. 

“Don’t worry, Miss Misty, I’ll take good care of him. I  _ do  _ owe him my life, you know.”

Misty beams. “That’s because Mister Draco is being good! The best!”

She turns to Draco, who’s riddled with some sort of fond embarrassment he hasn’t felt since his mother cooed over him when he was  _ eleven,  _ and makes him turn her into her Luna-Human Disguise.

“I take it you’ll be going to the muggle parts, then?”

Misty, the smug git, just winks at him. Bloody  _ winks!  _ “Mister Draco will be seeing.”

She leaves him sighing in defeat with a loud ‘crack’.

The silence is so heavy that he nearly calls her back, just to hear her little voice question him to the point of annoyance again.

“It’s...It’s good to see that you survived.” Carla says. “We all thought they were gonna keep you locked away in that hell hole, the whole lot of us were ready to come defend you if Mr. Potter’s word didn’t do the trick.”

Something clogs up his throat. He just manages to get out a quiet ‘thank you’ before she, seeing that he’s  _ clearly  _ uncomfortable without his little tyrant, takes mercy on him.

“Anyways, enough sadness! We here at Carla’s Relaxation Station are all about getting people relaxed down to their bones!”

If it’s possible, her smile widens when Draco sends her a withering glare.

She has him smell what feels like a thousand bottles before shoving him into a shower cubicle and telling him to put his things away in one of the cupboards that are, apparently, charmed to make his things disappear until he personally comes to retrieve them.

He hasn’t taken a shower, or a bath for that matter, since….well, since the day before the Battle of Hogwarts. 

It was in the morning, because he’d had a nightmare and woken up sweaty and not at all feeling like faking it in the slightest. But the water had soothed him, scalded him until he could put on his proper Pureblood Death Eater Mask and have a somewhat restrained breakfast where he pretended not to be bothered by Aunt Bella’s comments on what she’d like to do to Neville Longbottom.

He’d wanted to kill her right there at the fucking dining room table, especially after that shit she pulled with the Golden Trio. The only reason he’d resisted was because he knew she had been the one to help him and his mother keep Luna safe.

Briefly, he considers sending Molly Weasley a ‘thank you’ card for killing her, but that seems a bit weird, even with the current oddities in his life.

About an hour later, he’s really surprised Carla didn’t give him a timer, Draco exits the shower cubicle feeling, for lack of better words,  _ clean.  _

His hair scrubbed within an inch of its life, full of bottles of unknown continents that Carla forced on him. His skin feels more like skin that it has in  _ years,  _ and he smells faintly of apples and vanilla, something that hasn’t happened since he was ten and his father told him that real men don’t smell like that at all.

He wonders what his father would think of ‘real men’ getting their face exfoliated.

“Now,” Carla says as she gently rubs his face down with a surprisingly warm, damp cloth. “After I take care of your poor skin and hair, I’m going to give you a bit of a massage. Your, um,  _ friend,  _ Misty that is, recommended the magical one, but I just wanted to make sure that’s okay.”

Draco shrugs, because at this point he’s fairly sure he’d do just about anything Misty asked him to, weird, strange, morally questionable or not.

Can’t be worse than living with the Dark Lord.

Carla does some, admittedly, curious things to him from there. He recognizes a face mask after years of being friends with Blaise and Pansy. The sight of one nearly has him bursting into tears but he manages to hold it together until she starts messing with his hair, and then he can’t seem to hold the stupid things back.

The fact that she doesn’t comment on it at all makes him more inclined to trust her than he cares to admit.

For some unknown reason, after cleaning his face and putting products that she doesn’t name into his hair, she wraps his still, unfortunately, wavy locks in a towel, tells him to dress to his comfort, and when he says he already is, she frowns and tells him that he at least as to take off his shirt.

“Why?”

“It….” Carla sighs. “Well, with most people, they typically dress down to their underwear, but a few are comfortable enough to go stark naked if you believe it. You have to allow the oils,  _ and  _ the magic, to seep into your skin if you want it to work, and after Miss Misty’s instructions, I assure you, we  _ both  _ want this to work.”

“But…” He trials off, looking anywhere but her eyes for fear that they’ll see through him like Pansy always did. There’s just something about women who take care of themselves. They always have the ability to see right through his bullshit. It’s honestly rather irritating.

Carla laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m a lesbian, actually. My girlfriend works right down the street at the apothecary.”

“June?”

“Yeah,” Carla sighs dreamily, “A muggle born and a new pureblood, quite the scandal, huh? Her and her sister were apparently completely different, though I never did get to meet April. I do know, however, that April assimilated into the Wizarding World better than June did, but hey! While she’s not the best at potions she makes up for it with-”

“Okay! So, clothing, yes? I just...dress down?”

Carla nods, amusement all over her face. 

“And my...my Mark?”

Her eyes clear from amusement, understanding overwriting any humor. “Will all due respect, Mister Malfoy, if you didn’t have that mark I wouldn’t be standing here right now. It’s...it’s not a nice thing, and I know it can’t have been easy for you, but a little selfish part of me is glad to know you have it, because without it I’d be dead, and I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to meet June. It sucks, excuse my professionalism, but I’d daresay it’s downright shitty to have a constant reminder, but shitty things happen for a reason, you know?”

Draco thinks that he might just know what she’s talking about.

Shitty things like Azkaban. Like not having a Dementor suck his soul out before he left the hell hole. Like the Dark Lord, and Harry  _ fucking  _ Potter saving his sorry ass. Like Misty’s seemingly constant well meaning plots. Like the little letter from his mother still waiting for him to open. Like the Black Family’s secret saying. 

“Draco.”

“Hm?”

“My name is Draco. Mister Draco if you must, but I will never be Mister Malfoy, that’s reserved for my father.”

Carla offers him one of her real, not sales like or a professional smile, tells him about a tattoo parlor next to a plant shop that’s apparently run by a wizard if he ‘needs to visit’, and excuses herself so Draco can get comfortable on the table.

The massage is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Granted, the closest thing he’s ever got was when he rubbed his sore spots after a particularly harsh bruise, or his hands after a long Quidditch match, but it’s still something he can’t quite describe.

He knows what magic feels like when it hits his body.

It’s rough, painful, and meant to scar. Violent like gashes of red, colder than ice, always squashing the air out of his lungs and leaving him withering in agony.

Carla’s magic isn’t like that at all.

When Draco closes his eyes, he imagines something like the golden color of honey seeping into his skin, gently untangling knots, carefully soothing areas he  _ knows  _ are filled with scars. Painful memories that he’d think to be nightmares without their evidence on his body are bathed in some type of peaceful golden glow.

At some point, Carla informs him that she’ll be opening the window so he doesn’t get overheated, and for a second he worries.

Magic, with heat involved, never ends well. And it’s just like him to get so close to something good only for it to burn him. 

Instead, those stubborn spots that refuse to just  _ let go  _ of his well held troubles just melt away under a pleasant warmth. Like sitting by a fire during Christmas. Like napping by the Black Lake after exams, like whispering under Pansy’s covers, or curling up in the Slytherin common room to read next to Blaise. Like a hug from his mother, or the feeling of a boiling potion in Severus’s lab.

He’s not sure when he starts crying fully, but much like the stress apparently apparent in his body, Carla’s magic forces the tears out in steady, practiced, and perfected motions. 

It doesn’t hurt to cry for once.

Doesn’t leave him gasping for air, doesn’t make pressure build up in the back of his eyes, doesn’t even tickle his throat. Just a steady, silent flow of water falling down onto the floor from the hole he currently has his face in.

A breeze from the window that smells distinctly like salt and beaches wipes the tears away and Draco feels that treacherous feeling building up all over again.

Under golden magic and the smell of the tide, Draco gives in to getting his hopes up. A small, horridly lovely idea that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ things will be okay.

That he will be okay.

  
  
  
  


\---------

  
  
  


Misty picks him up at three on the dot, squealing so loudly he has to cover his ears.

_ “Misty!” _

“Mister Draco is looking so pretty!” Misty all but yells at him. She accepts every single bottle Carla picked out for him. Body wash, soaps, hair care products, exfoliants, more masks than he’ll ever use, even the bloody feet and nail care kits. Before Draco even has the chance to tell her no, Misty swipes his card and drags him out of the shop.

“Misty will be taking these with her, but Mister Draco  _ can’t  _ be coming home until five! Misty is needing more time!”

“But-”

“And Mister Draco be needing clothes! And-and  _ books,  _ and  _ shoes,  _ he doesn’t even have a-”

“Misty,  _ please.”  _ Draco hisses, fully aware of the curious eyes on him.

“Promise Misty that you won’t be returning until five!” She counters, holding a tiny little pinky up.

Draco stares at it, unsure of what to do, until Misty sighs and forces his pinky to intertwine with hers.

“It is being a  _ pinky promise,  _ Mister Draco. Once they is locked they can’t be breaking.”

“Oh really?” Draco muses, that fond amusement back to bite him in the ass. Honestly, at this point he’s rather surprised that nothing bad has happened. Well, nothing but the damage to his bank account.

_ “Really.”  _ Misty wiggles their fingers, “If Mister Draco be promising and locking than he has to  _ mean  _ it!”

Draco sighs, but, because he’s getting really bad about not telling Misty no, he does promise. He probably looks a little stupid, standing there in the middle of a street, listening to her tell him that once their thumbs touch his promise will be locked into place and solemnly kept forever.

He probably looks even more stupid when he stands there watching the spot she disappeared out of, feeling alone, a little cold, and stupidly sad to be without her.

But she gave him a mission.

Clothes, books, shoes. 

He can do that.

As long as he has coffee first, because frankly, he’s far too relaxed to be in public right now. A single touch of something soft would probably knock him right out. 

So, feeling a bit embarrassed and mortifyingly sleepy, Draco wanders about the street until he finds the bakery he last saw Willie and the wandmarker, Sal, at. For some strange reason the old woman behind the counter doesn’t look nearly as friendly as she did then, though He’s hoping it’s because her shop is near empty and not because of him.

“Hello, again, Death Eater.”

Fuck.

All at once, his little cloud left over from Carla’s magic shatters, shooting him back to the earth with such force it trips him even as he stills himself.

“How did you-”

“We might be fond of minding our own business, but when a stranger comes to town, we make a point to know what we can about them. Gotta know if they’ve dangerous, if we need to protect the kiddies.” She glares at him coolly, glasses perched on the end of her nose. Personally, he thinks McGonagall wore that look better. “There  _ has  _ just been a war, you know.”

Draco swallows. “Yes-I...I’m aware.”

He turns to leave, because what else can he really do? 

If he says anything else to her, she can take it as offense. Bring it to the Aurors of this district, which means brining it to the current Minister’s notice, and Draco’s not sure who that is at the moment, but he highly doubts that they’ll be as kind as Kingsley is. 

No. He can’t say a word. Saying anything means Azkaban, or worse, the Manor. Sure, it might be destroyed but people hate him enough to make him live there anyways, and if he’s living there how is he going to make sure Misty and Salem have what they need?

He’ll have to visit the bank after this, put her in his will, leave her and Narcissa everything. All because he was stupid enough to believe in something other than a horrid future.

Is it really all that bad, though?

Azkaban brings Dementors, and Draco’s always been good at making people want to kiss him. His scars and lack of personal upkeep aside, he’s sure he can charm (beg) a Dementor into a single smooch.

And, if they  _ do  _ reconstruct the Manor just to torture him, he can always just off himself the old fashioned way. He’s creative, he’s sure he can find something-

“A Death Eater who shares a blueberry scone with an house elf is unheard of.”

Draco whirls around to stare at her.

The first thing he notes is that she looks much kinder when she’s smiling. 

Sort of like an old grandmother who’s just caught her grandchildren stealing from a cookie jar. She pushes her glasses back up to the proper place on her nose, smile never dimming, but becoming kinder with each passing second.

“I’m sorry to be rude, sir, but you’re causing quite the stir among us shopkeepers. A stranger is one thing, but  _ Death Eater Draco Malfoy  _ is a very different thing. Needless to say, Sal, Howie, and Alice are all fond of you, sweet little Carla could hardly believe it when she saw your name on her register, and I daresay you’ve saved some unfortunate soul’s life by teaching June a thing or two. The rest are wary, of course, but they’re coming around. Well, everyone but that old coot Randy, I’d avoid the liquor store if I were you, just for now. That man is downright _unpleasant._ ”

Draco blinks at a few times, trying desperately to come up with a response because  _ what?  _

“Oh! Excuse me, I should’ve introduced myself the other day, hm? I’m Daisy May, and I do believe I owe you a scone on the house, though I could be persuaded to throw in a muffin for that lovely friend of yours.”

“Right…” Draco blinks again. Feeling less like he’s been plummeted into the earth and more like he’s suddenly found himself waking up in the middle of a lake. “Right, well, Mrs. May-”

“Please, dear, only my husband calls me that. Daisy will be just fine.”

The side of him that’s been raised to always,  _ always  _ respect old women rears it’s head before he can blink again. “Madam, I could  _ never.  _ That would be incredibly rude of me, Mrs. Daisy, confusion or not-”

“Confusion?”  _ Mrs.  _ Daisy says. “We can’t have that. Why don’t you give me one second to grab your goodies and explain?”

She says it as a question, but she takes off before Draco can bother to protest. Completely and utterly disappears into the back room, coming back a few seconds later with two shrunken to-go boxes and a plated blueberry scone. “These here will hold until seven, perfect for an after dinner snack, and I’ve got them fresh out of the oven so they should be nice and fresh when you take a bite.”

Draco eyes the coffee machines, the whole reason he came here, and she catches it. “You look a bit tired, dearie. Sit!” 

She points to the bar stools tucked underneath the counter and Draco’s so used to listening to Misty that he just kinda...does. After placing the scone in front of him and urging him to eat, she turns to a giant machine, asks a bunch of weird questions like  _ hot or cold? sweet or bitter? whip?  _

After making a weird amount of nose with the strange machines, she puts two cups in front of him, snagging a sip of the one closest to her. “Why, that’s just wonderful, isn’t it? Take a sip, dearie, you’ve yet to touch your scone!”

Draco eyes the cup, watches condensation form from the ice and drip onto the napkin Mrs. Daisy has laid out, then shrugs and takes a sip. It’s not Misty’s coffee but  _ holy fuck  _ it’s wonderful. Reminds him of sneaking hazelnuts in his youth, stealing chocolate when no one was looking, like a perfect sunny, rainy day.

Mrs. Daisy chatters on as he munches on his scone.

Apparently, every last one of the shopkeepers are  _ horrid  _ gossips. They meet up every Wednesday night, right when Beans and Sweets closes to fill each other in on everything, drink coffee, rant and sometimes praise their weekly customers. Two Wednesdays ago Mr. Sal from the wandshop store came storming in, rueful and extremely annoyed at some mistreated boy and his strangely familiar house elf. Naturally, the little group of gossipers took it upon themselves to find out  _ everything  _ they could, which was quite a lot. It explains quite a bit, now that he’s thinking about it. 

They were, of course,  _ wary  _ to begin with, but a week later all any of them could talk about was how  _ different  _ Draco is to the Draco in their imaginations.

“You can’t fault us for this, dearie, not after everything that’s happened these past few years. We weren’t expecting you to be….well,  _ you.” _

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mrs. Daisy frowns in thought. “For starters, you’re very kind. Always thanking whoever you’re buying from, indulging Howie and his oddities, never being anything but courteous and  _ sweet  _ to little Misty. From the papers, and your last name, we assumed you’d be pristine and proper at all times, yet today is the first day I’ve seen you with washed hair. Oh, don’t take offence, Dearie, it's a  _ wonderful  _ change, but we both know cleaning charms can only do so much. When we found out you were redoing the Prynne’s old house we nearly lost it. You see, that house doesn’t let just  _ anyone  _ live in it. It’s very picky, you have to have a certain type of heart, or so they say. The  _ real  _ thing that sealed the deal for us was when you went on your hunt for Misty’s room. I’m sure you didn’t realize it, but you were looking at her all day! Howie said you were muttering about whether she’d like a tub or not, and I’m still dying to hear the answer!”

Draco hasn’t the faintest clue  _ how  _ she gets him to talk, but she does, and he finds himself spilling every detail about the house. How Misty’s sunroom is coming along, how they wake up and cook breakfast on a magical stove with muggle pots and pans. How Misty  _ loves  _ her little bath, the pothos hanging from the ceiling, even her disgusting pink robes. How Draco’s fully planning on stocking the shelves in the library as soon as he can, how he secretly likes the accidental brick accent wall in the living room, how the dark lavender shelves in the office bring him an unreasonable amount of peace.

He even tells her that he actually, in fact,  _ loves  _ the iron spiral staircase.

And he doesn’t have a clue as to  _ why  _ he does that.

The thing is, Draco doesn’t really  _ do  _ this. He doesn’t just happily chat away to  _ anyone,  _ not after the war. Not after having to hide everything, having to shove his own emotions down, having to  _ be  _ that perfect, posh prick that Mrs. Daisy expects him to be.

But, surprisingly, he does. He just fucking does.

And it feels  _ so  _ good.

Like he’s clawing himself back up to that cloud. Forcing his way back to that calm, sedated feeling that Carla left him in. 

Secrets be damned, this is  _ his  _ house and he’s bloody fucking  _ proud  _ of it!

This is the first good thing he’s done in so, so,  _ so  _ long. The first he’s ever done with his own hands and it’s hard. Putting a house together is never easy, but he’s doing it. Him and Misty, with Salem watching them like he’s cheering them on and Draco  _ wants  _ to talk about it. He wants to run down the streets and shout about how  _ bloody wrong  _ they are about him. 

He’s so very tired of acting.

And Mrs. Daisy is a very good listener. 

She refills his coffee cup while she listens, exclaiming in awe and expressing a desire to see each and every room when the house is finally done. She forces another scone on him, complaining about how skinny he is while he rants about the kitchen. She tuts at him when he admits to sleeping in the library instead of a bed. And, weirdly enough, she doesn’t let him pay when he realizes what time it is.

“Mrs. Daisy-”

“I won’t hear of it, Draco Dearie! I was perfectly rude to you! If you’re that bothered about it, you can pay when you come see me next time!”

“Next time?” Draco asks, pausing by the counter.

“You will come back, won’t you? It gets terribly lonely on Mondays, I’d quite enjoy some company.”

The thing is, Draco would quite enjoy some company too.

He leaves her twenty gallons as a tip, promising that he’ll be back next Monday if she’ll let him have more of whatever she brewed.

  
  
  
  
  


\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I totally forgot to mention the posting schedule for this! I'll be updating every Friday and Wednesday! Thank you so much for all your kinds words! I started this on a whim and it's by far my favorite thing I've ever written! I'll be responding to all the comments soon and I cannot thank you all enough for enjoying this! Also, I hope you love Mrs. Daisy because I would die for her and Misty both! Anyways, see you Friday!


	4. Ren N'Est Pour Rien

Draco ends up being late.

He doesn’t mean to, of course, but the issue with shopping is that he always, always,  _ always  _ takes too long. Even as a  _ child  _ he could spend hours in shops, not caring at all that he might be wasting time. 

Misty gave him a list, for Merlin’s sake, and he’s still an entire hour late.

It all went wrong when he visited the bank, wanting to know how far he was from reaching the limit he keeps expecting to hit, only for Griphook to tell him that his mother took three quarters of the Malfoy Main Vault and just  _ gave  _ it to him.

That’s enough money for him and at least  _ ten  _ generations of him to never work, no matter how many houses need to be redone. 

The first thing he did with this information was make sure his mother would be taken care of, and then, after being assured that Narcissa could buy any and everything, Draco did just that. Bought any, and everything, he bloody well wanted.

He went to nearly every shop on the Yellow Brick Road, save the liquor store, just in case. He got magical plants, wizards pants that look  _ comfortable,  _ as many books as he could without cleaning out the local bookstore, some odds and ends for Misty, shoes so Misty will stop looking at his feet with frowns, and then, when he exited June’s apothecary, he went to his favorite muggle shopping district.

That was the second thing to go wrong.

If he’d stayed in Wizard Scotland, he probably would’ve been right on time to get home. But, he got tired of watching the time, knowing he had two hours before he could step foot in his own cottage, and somehow ended up forgetting time all together the second he landed in the middle of Silverburn, the biggest shopping district Scotland has to offer. 

Probably not the smartest move to stray away from the comfortable, small but useful shops he’s grown used to, but he’d explored anyways.

So, so,  _ so  _ many bags of clothes later, he’d found his way into a muggle bookstore, a record store, plant shops, sweet shops, home improvement areas, even a fucking  _ children’s store  _ because he saw a bear in the window and immediately thought of Misty.

He’s easily spent  _ at least  _ a thousand gallons today, is definitely an hour late, and he doesn’t regret any of it.

Misty crosses her arms.

Draco regrets some of it. 

“Don’t be mad-”

“Misty was expecting sir at five!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to get lost but look! I got you things!”

Draco drags her into the living room before her glare makes him shrink into his guilt any more than he already is, pulling out piles of things and shoving it at her feet.

The issue with that is that he’s gotten so much shit, too much to carry in regular bags, and thus ends up spilling the entire continents of his extended bag onto the floor.

He’s so very thankful that he remembered to cast unbreakable charms on everything.

Misty immediately forgets her annoyance with him to help him sort, flicking things into their various places in the home unless it goes in the pile of things for her that Draco demands comes last.

She doesn't comment at all on his full blown shopping spree, but a smile chips away at the frown on her face and before Draco knows it she’s laughing at him.

That is until she faces her pile, taller than she is, and promptly starts crying.

And while Draco’s still confused on house elf emotions, she hasn’t even  _ looked  _ at anything. Not really, at the very least she hasn’t had a chance to take everything in, so Draco sits her down in her pink shell chair and gives her the rundown.

Dresses, socks, shoes, sweaters, plants, a giant pink teddy bear, fancy gardening tools, a book on magical plants right next to a book about regular plants, pants, shorts, embroidery kits, and finally the best two presents.

A necklace. 

Simple, long yet beautifully shined silver chain. The pendent a perfectly round  _ something  _ and Draco knows that she knows when her breath catches. It’s not blue, but it is. Not grey, but it is. Not  _ familiar  _ but  _ of course  _ it is. They see it every day. It calls to them, brings them peace, keeps them safe. It’s snarky, rude, gentle and probably the very reason they get to be like this. 

The ocean. Somehow encased in a single stone, hanging from a silver chain.

Misty starts crying, which completely ruins the second best gift.

“Hey! Stop,  _ Misty.  _ Love, darling, I have one more thing to give you.”

“Another?!” Misty chokes out, looking up at him with utter adoration in her eyes.

“Yes, but I actually think you might grow to hate this one.”

He holds it up, and she immediately frowns. “Mister Draco, you is knowing that Misty can’t be reading human words.”

“Yes.” Draco says, handing her the letter book anyways. “This will teach you.”

“Teach me? Mister Draco is going to teach Misty?”

Draco smiles, but Misty bursts into tears before he can say anything else. 

It takes some time to calm her down, eventually Salem wanders in to go through his own pile that they haven’t put away yet, and his entry makes Misty stop dead in her tracks.

“Mister Draco!”

“Yes?”

_ “Your room!” _

Draco tries to protest, because he’s not really  _ ready  _ for that, but Misty takes his hands and suddenly he’s upstairs, staring at a simple light wooden door like it might come alive and kill him. 

It’s not white like every door in the Manor is. Not an old, faded golden color like the oval arches downstairs are, and it doesn’t have a big pink flower on the outside like Misty’s door does. What it does have is a row of tiny, hand painted blue flowers. Just one row of them, on the middle border of the door, the one that connects with the door knob of the same blue color.

Nothing like the Manor.

_ It’s okay.  _ Draco tells himself, because it  _ is.  _ Just a door. Just a room- his room- in a house- his house, apparently. 

Not a dorm room to hide secrets in, not his room at the Manor where he’d been beaten and bruised by life in some rather unforgivable ways. Certainly not a cell in a dingy old prison on the middle of an island. 

Still, with all his grumbling at himself, he can’t help but feel nervous because things  _ always  _ go wrong in whatever room he calls his. What if he hurts someone? What if Dementors really  _ do  _ come to suck his soul out?

That’s exactly what he thinks is happening when Misty pushes the daunting door wide open, effectively stealing the last bit of air in Draco’s lungs.

It’s... _ oh.  _ It’s not the Manor  _ at all.  _

Sunset burns through the ice in Draco’s chest, his feet move forward without his permission, taking in the almost white blue walls, the view from the bay window on the far side of the room, the window seats with bookshelves under them, the ridiculously soft looking pale lounge chair. He doesn't stumble on the beautiful green persian rug, but he does choke when he sees a golden oval baker’s rack filled with pictures he thought he hid. There’s at  _ least  _ twelve plants in the room, on the baker's rack, on the floor, on hanging shelves, on top of the bookcase, on the lovely bedside table.

And the  _ bed.  _

It simply  _ has  _ to be magic. 

Levitating a good four feet off the floor, hidden away by long, stunningly woven cloth that hangs around it with vines, as though one could hide inside that canopy and be free, be  _ safe  _ on whatever lies behind the veil. Draco carefully steps to the side of a wicker chest that surely contains a thousand blankets, pleased to note that the canopy is at the foot and head of the bed, covering the ceiling of the bed, but not obstructing the sides, which Draco assumes is practical. He’d hate to get up in the middle of the night and get tangled in that lovely shield as he tries to get to the loo. Plus, this way he can see the sunrise and sunset if he really wants to.

He can also see how the remaining sunlight dances on pillows clad in silk and satin, how it warms a dusty rose blanket thrown over a woven comforter, just edging along the line of white cotton sheets. It looks so comfortable. So soft and warm, so  _ perfect. _

Draco doesn’t remember that he’s supposed to be reacting outwardly until he realizes that Misty is rambling on.

“-and Misty is doing all the good charms, sir! She put feather light charms on the blankets and made some cool and come warm because she knows Mister Draco be liking cold and hot, and Mistress always be insisting that veils should be on a bed so that little ones can’t be seeing into it at first, and Misty knows that Mister Draco isn’t having little ones, but Misty and Mister Draco be having Salem and Misty  _ knows  _ Salem has a tent on the window seat, but she also  _ knows  _ Salem is gonna end up in Mister Draco’s bed so Misty be making all the sheets scratch resistant and fur repellent and Misty knows Mister Draco be liking to sleep on the floor, but Mister Draco also be liking the clouds so Misty be turning the bed into a cloud so Mister Draco isn’t being on the floor anymore-”

_ “Misty.”  _ Draco manages.

He steps back to her and pulls her into a hug. 

Suddenly her emotions make a lot of sense because Draco is fighting the urge to burst into tears.

Never in his life has someone been so fucking thoughtful. He doesn’t know if she put much thought into it, but still. None of the wood in the room is dark, it’s all light and fresh. The flowers inside would never be allowed under Lucius’s gaze, but they make the room feel  _ alive.  _ Like the curtains are welcoming him, like the cushions are saying hello, like the bed and the stupid fucking baker’s rack never want to say goodbye.

Draco loves it. Loves it so much he can’t put it into words. And  _ yes,  _ Misty snuck pink into the room but the dusty blanket is perfect, just like the rug and the glass spun lamps on the bedside tables and the fact that she thought to turn the bottom of the window seats into bookshelves because she  _ knows  _ he stays up late reading. 

He’s struck with some sort of emotion that clogs up his throat, something he never wants to let go of, and that sucks, actually, because Misty is trying to wiggle out of his arms.

“Mister Draco!” She scolds, “Misty hasn’t even shown sir the bathroom!”

Dear  _ Merlin.  _ There’s more?!

Misty drags him through the golden archway to the left of the bed, past two extended walk in closets that apparently have all his clothes already, and through another archway that leads to the bathroom-  _ his  _ bathroom.

Unlike the other two bathrooms, the ones down stairs with bold colors, his bathroom is so neutral it immediately fills him with calm.

He has to take two steps inside to see it all.

There’s a toilet with a ridiculously clean grey lid, an enormous shower tucked away in the corner, already filled with odds and ends from Carla. A long line of cabinets, two lovely silver skinks with long faucets and a cabinet between them, soaps on the cabinets next to the sinks as well. Just like the bedroom, Misty has filled the spaces with plants. Large, beautiful abstract paintings hang on either side of the toilet, but what takes Draco’s focus is the tub.

A huge, big enough for three people, silver claw foot soaking tub. Pressed right against the bay window in the room, a little stool next to it filled with Carla’s more expensive stuff.

“There is being bath things underneath the counters, sir, Misty only got the best, and the Mister Howie be telling Misty that the bath is the finest bath around! She be getting the muggle towels Mister Draco be liking, but spelling them to be soft and warm always! And the toilet, sir, is just like the one downstairs and-”

Draco cuts her off with a hug before he can embarrass himself more than he already has.

And then she forces him to look in the full wall mirror and Draco promptly loses the ability to remain composed.

He looks...like Draco.

But not Draco Malfoy. Just Draco.

Draco who is still far too skinny, who still has scars covering most of the left side of his face, who still has bags under his eyes and hair far too wavy to deny the curls.

But it’s also Draco who’s skin is glowing. Draco with a small smile on him. Draco who’s scars don’t look that bad, actually. Draco who has long curly hair, a dangerous and calm presence to him. Someone who has  _ clearly  _ been through a lot and still remains standing.

A Draco who is alive.

And that is something that Draco Malfoy never was.

  
  


\-----------

  
  
  


The one problem with his room is something he doesn’t notice until he’s getting ready for bed. 

He has on his nice cotton pyjamas, the blue ones to match Misty’s pink set.  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland  _ sits on top of his cover, just waiting to be read, and Salem eyes him from his spot on the lower corner of Draco’s bed.

It would be so easy to slip in, enjoy the feeling of his new sheets, sink into the comfort that Misty has provided him. The only thing is the letter resting on his bedside table.

The letter from his mother.

Draco sighs.

He loves his mother, he really and truly does. She’s been the one protecting him, keeping him  _ sane  _ for the past five years and yet he doesn’t want to interact with her. Doesn’t want to meet her disappointment, doesn't want to tell her that he’s not the son she’s been raising anymore.

There’s too much that’s changed for him to still be his parent’s version of Draco Malfoy. 

But, he’s put off reading her letter for three weeks now. She even sent him a birthday present. Besides, reading a letter doesn’t mean he has to  _ respond  _ to it.

So he slips into bed, and instead of grabbing his book, he grabs her letter and slowly opens it.

_ Draco, _

_ My love and darling, I know things are hard right now and I haven’t been there for you, but you must stay strong. Don’t leave me yet, I’m not ready to die before you, a mother should never suffer her child’s loss, it is always the burden of the child to bear that pain. _

_ I understand that what I ask is selfish and cruel, but Draco, love, I am your mother above all else. If you can’t see that, if you can’t see  _ **_me_ ** _ , I ask that you find happiness. That the voids inside you reach their limits and become filled with joy. I ask that you always remember my love for you, and know that whatever path you choose has my unyielding support.  _

_ Should you find it in your heart to find me, visit your grandmother’s house. _

_ I will be waiting for you with love and open arms, always. _

_ Rien n'est pour rien, _

_ Your loving mother. _

She’s asking him to be happy.

Where the hell was that eleven years ago? 

When his father took him aside at the age of  _ seven  _ and started his training? When he was beat for eating apples off a sodding tree? When all of his favorite stuffed animals were burned because they didn’t ‘fit the Malfoy image’?

He knows where it was, it was in the same place she held her courage.

The part of her that  _ did  _ protect him, even if it took her awhile to come to that conclusion. 

When she tended to his bruises. When she hexed Lucius for failing his task because she  _ knew  _ it would fall on him. When she lied straight to the Dark Lord’s face.

Part of him wants to tear the letter into shreds, but a very small and timid voice in the back of his head stops him from doing just that. He’s always kept his letters from his mum. At Hogwarts he’d keep a box of them under his bed at all times, and when he was home Pansy and Blaise took two boxes underneath his dresser.

He can’t throw it away.

What if he never gets another one?

Salem meows at him, trotting up the length of the bed-  _ his bed-  _ so he can lean his entire body against Draco’s knees and pur.

The action startles him out of his weird war between burning the letter and hanging it on the wall.

In the end he simply slips it into his bedside table, curls up next to Salem and tries to read through Alice’s recount of impossibilities.

It doesn’t go quite as planned, as he has to read the first chapter ten times before he accepts that he hasn’t read a single word. Sure, he’s been looking at the pages and  _ seeing  _ the words, but not reading them, not really.

Because his mother’s letter is sitting inside his bedside table and something about that seems wrong.

So, like any reasonable person would do, he gently prys himself away from Salem, grabs the letter, and creeps down to the office.

The calm lavender bookshelves mock him. Really. Who the hell is scared of writing a letter to their mother?

He could always let it go unanswered. She even  _ said  _ he could. For Merlin’s sake she basically gave him permission to never see her again and he knows why. He’d have to be an idiot not to.

Memories of her means memories of the war. Looking at her means remembering her panic trying to find him in the castle, her crying after he was tortured, her begging for mercy from anyone who’d listen. 

But his mother is not the war.

She’s so, so,  _ so  _ much more.

She’s hiding laughter as he dives into the pool. She’s late night snacks they have to hide from Lucius. She’s warm hugs, the smell of a cool winter breeze, gentle hands, precious smiles and above all else  _ she is his mother. _

And at the end of the day he’ll always love her.

He sits at his desk and pulls out several parchment papers, writing and rewriting, tossing letters that aren’t good enough into the bin, nearly breaking several quills, muggle pencils, and inkwells alike.

At two in the morning Misty finds him, arms crossed, not impressed in the slightest.

“Mister Draco…. _ what  _ is you doing?”

“Ah….” Draco looks up from his sixty second attempt. “Composing?”

Misty gives him a dull stare. Her little slippers tap on the floor. “You is composing? When it is being two thirty seven in the morning?”

“...Yes.”

Misty rolls her eyes, which means he’s totally in the clear. If she were  _ really  _ upset, she’d be yelling at him and forcing him out of the office and straight into bed. She hasn't even brought their little blue balls with her.

“And what, exactly, does Mister Draco be composing?”

“A letter.”

Merlin, she’d make one hell of an interrogator. Maybe it’s a future career path for her? Do house elves even  _ have  _ dreams? Aspirations? Goals? Because if Misty does Draco is absolutely down to front her a start up fee, fund her entire company, and possibly ensure that whatever workplace she goes into looks like someone tried to grow a forest inside a building.

“And who is this letter going to?”

Ah. That’s the one question he can’t wiggle out of. Not under  _ those  _ piercing eyes while he is slightly sleep deprived.

“My mother.”

All the annoyance quickly vanishes from Misty’s face.

She summons two cups that smell like lavender tea, perches on the empty side of his desk, and nods at him to read what he has.

“It’s not- I can’t- It doesn't say what I want it to.” Draco tells her, “I can’t get the words right.”

“That is because Mister Draco is not speaking from his heart. He is letting his brain do all the talking instead. Mister Draco should be trying again, but from his heart, sir.”

And that’s what he does. It takes three more attempts before he gets the perfect letter down. It’s still too short, it doesn’t say half the things he wants to say to his mother, but it’s  _ something. _

  
  


_ Mum,  _

_ I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever. To be frank, I do miss you, but I can’t see you. Not yet, at least. There will come a day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year from now, where I will seek you out and we’ll have tea by grandmother’s gardens like we did when I was little. We’ll laugh and talk until the stars shine in the sky, be engulfed once again in everything pure like we should always be. I’m making a life for myself again. It’s painful and tiring but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this content, and your support in this aspiration means more to me than I can hope to say. _

_ I am safe, I am well, and I am learning to be happy. _

_ I love you, and will be with you as soon as I’m able to. _

_ Ren n'est pour rien, _

_ Your loving son. _

“There is being French?” Misty asks after he reads it to her twice.

“Yes.”

“Why? What is it’s meaning, sir?”

Draco traces over the words with his finger,  _ rien n'est pour rien,  _ “Nothing is for nothing.”

Misty gives him a look, one thin eyebrow furrowing down while the other rises slightly. “Nothing is being for nothing?”

“It’s...it’s like saying that everything is for a reason, you know? There is nothing in this word that’s done for no reason, even split second decisions are made with some motive, even if it’s just because doing something makes you happy. My family, on my mother’s side at least, has had this saying in their family for  _ ages.  _ Nothing is for nothing, so whatever decision we make is going to bring us something.”

“It is being like always having a purpose.”

“Yeah,” Draco smiles. “Like having a purpose.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  


The next morning finds the two of them sitting across from each other, eating eggs and arguing over the guest bedrooms. So far they’ve only agreed to do opposite colored rooms, but Misty wants to use pink and forest green and Draco thinks there’s already too much pink, so Misty argues that there’s too much  _ green.  _

Draco finishes his last bit of coffee, “Okay, okay, what about floral and industrial?”

“Mister Draco is not liking industrial, and neither is Misty. Violet and blush?”

“Nope. If you get the pink, I get the green.”

Misty scowls at him, turning her head so she can look out the window.

And Draco, completely oblivious to her longing gaze, just keeps going. “I’d say black and white, but we both know I’m not a fan of dark things or plane white walls, but then again we can use picture frames and decorations….nah-oh! Silver and Gold! That’s be perfect-Misty?”

“Hm?” She tears her gaze away from the outside, seemingly startled. “What was Mister Draco saying?”

“I was-are you okay?”

Misty gives him a guilty smile. “Misty is being okay, sir, Misty is just missing the garden, sir.”

“The garden?”

Oh right, the dead garden with the rotted produce. Merlin, he completely forgot about the outside of the house.

“How about this?” Draco says, “We can do the outside of the house today and hopefully figure out the guest rooms while we’re at it?”

“The outside?”

“Yep! We’ll probably need to paint it, repair the roof in a few spots, I just  _ know  _ the chimney needs a little work, and we can’t just leave the garden like it is.”

Misty perks up instantly. “Mister Draco is letting Misty have the garden again?”

“Of course,” Draco shoots her a smile. “Anything you’d like, Misty.”

That’s what he says at least, but she, of course, takes it way too seriously.

Instead of having a mix of muggle  _ and  _ magical plants, she somehow convinces him that only  _ year round  _ plants should go in the garden out front, but she keeps making eyes at plants in every plant store, and that somehow leads to Draco agreeing to build a greenhouse in the back. 

And that means they have to double back to every store, mostly magical, but a few muggle shops for seeds that Misty refuses to disclose any information about. He just hopes the magical fertilizer works with muggle plants. Misty says that Gardon thought it was fine, but Draco’s half convinced that Gardon was  _ insane.  _

He’ll have to ask Emilia during the next full moon.

Because Misty goes wild with the plants, she doesn’t fight any of his opinions about the outside of the house. He decides to keep the white shingle, but the roof has to go entirely, and since Misty glares at the green slating and beams at the pink shingles, Draco settles somewhere in the middle with a lovely blue round shingle. He’s not sure  _ how  _ she talks him into it, but Misty manages to drag him to a lawn and patio store right across from Howie’s.

At first he’s a little hesitant, because he doesn’t really spend a lot of time outside, but then a breeze from the ocean pushes him further into the outdoor area and he can’t say no.

The first thing to catch his eye are the crystal windchimes. 

They sing such a sweet melody in the sea breeze that he can’t really resist even if he wanted to, and since they have to hang on something, Draco ends up letting Misty talk him into a large awning with curtains, completed with an off white, weather-proof, L-shaped couch. And because he doesn't care one way or another, he lets Misty get an inground fire pit, one of the big circular ones that’s surrounded by a circle ledge and has to be accessed by descending stairs. He hasn’t the faintest clue where it’s going to go, but she knows the house better than he does, knows the outside, where the well is, how much space they have between the back of the house and the ocean. 

Draco assumes a hundred or so feet, but Misty keeps adding things to their cart so he’s not really sure at this point.

On the plus side, once they re-enter the magical world they don’t leave.

Probably because Draco spotted a tattoo parlor at the last muggle plant store they went to, and Misty is  _ insisting  _ that if he  _ does  _ get his Mark covered he gets it through Carla’s friend. 

But that’s for another day because it takes a ridiculously long time to set everything up, even  _ with  _ magic. 

Misty takes the grueling task of repairing each of the individual steps that lead from their little cliff down to a small beach area while Draco dutifully sets the greenhouse into place near the treeline. At least he understands  _ why  _ the stupid thing was so expensive now. On the outside, the greenhouse is a small, maybe four-by-four little glass house with a few stone steps leading up to a glass door, but it’s been expanded to be the size of a small Quidditch field on the inside, complete with four different biomes, a beginner seeding kit that he doesn’t believe Misty needs, and gardening tools for every purpose.

He’s really got to learn to tell her no.

Because Misty is still dealing with the steps, Draco has to yell down the cliffside and ask her where she wants the firepit, among other things, and she yells back for him to leave everything there so it can be a surprise.

“Misty!” He shouts, “I literally  _ bought  _ everything!”

“But you is not seeing it here!”

“I can’t just let you do it  _ alone!” _

“Yes you can, sir!”

In the end he goes inside to make lunch, gets distracted by Salem, nearly burns his new kitchen down, and returns at sunset with lemonade instead of burned sandwiches.

To say he’s floored is an understatement. 

Once again, Draco’s never really been the outside kind of guy, unless it’s Quidditch, but being a Death Eater comes with a lifelong ban on playing, according to his trial at least.

Granted, the one thing that he never really hated about the Manor was the Garden. The  _ Gardens,  _ technically. On the left side of the Manor was a field of several flowers, a little walkway between them that lead to the pools, the stables, and the Quidditch field, but on the right side were too many plants to count, the maze that refused to let his father enter, stunningly huge trees that he liked to hide under. The Malfoy Gardens had been his safe haven, the one pure place in the middle of hell that vanished without a trace when the Dark Lord descended upon them.

He never thought he’d love an outdoor space like this.

Misty has truly managed to outdo herself this time. Leading straight out the backdoor is a little cobblestone path, just like the one in the front, but instead of leading to a house, it trails off in four directions, covered on all sides with flowers he didn’t even notice before. One trail brushes by the in ground fire pit, a cozy looking circle filled with weather-proof blankets and pillows, surrounding a pit for flames in the middle. The next trail sweeps on and pauses at the green house, all seemingly small and innocent, but no doubt soon to be filled with all kinds of weird things. It travels on from there, flowers growing thinner and thinner until the cobblestone meets the first cushioned stone step on the cliff. He is so, so,  _ so  _ thankful he talked Misty into getting a railing. Knowing his luck he’d trip, have nothing to stop himself on, and fall into the rocks instead of the ocean.

He’d probably be distracted by the last little trail, the one that leads to an awning, dangling crystal wind chimes singing a sweet tune, glittering in what’s left of the afternoon sun.

Misty beams at him. “Mister Draco should be seeing the front!”

She doesn't even give him the chance to compliment her, just rushes up, grabs his hand, and then runs to the front of the house, hopping over freshly laid flower beds and cobblestone alike.

The front of the house, nearly all of it if he’s honest, is completely unrecognizable. 

Instead of the torn apart, nearly falling down cottage he stumbled upon nearly a month ago, there is a house. A  _ real  _ one. A fucking  _ home  _ of all things.

One with a ridiculous blue roof, pale bay windows, a little cobblestone pathway and a trail of pathway lights that look like flowers leading up to a blue door he does  _ not  _ remember agreeing to.

He’s honestly too shocked at proof of his hard work to care.

And when Misty whirls him around to see the once rotted garden, whatever argument he  _ was  _ thinking of dies right on the tip of his tongue.

Yellow poppies, pink thistles, harebells, miracle gales, cuckoo flowers, and in the middle of it all is a beautiful patch of hollyhocks.

It’s the only flower he ever learned the meaning to because his mother loved them, had them placed in as many corners of the Manor Gardens as she could, Draco remembers getting her a hollyhock bracelet, her sitting him down and explaining what it meant, what it reminds her of, and why it endeared itself to her in the first place.

Hollyhocks; the flower of fruitfulness.

Nothing is for nothing, in his mother’s words.

But, as Misty said, also for having a purpose.

Because, at the end of the day, having that purpose, seeing stairs or a cliff and  _ not  _ immediately thinking of throwing himself off, not longing after the kitchen knife sets, not wondering if Misty would be scared for the rest of her life if he magically trapped himself under water in the tub, all of that is  _ progress. _

It is  _ proof,  _ it is  _ willingness  _ to survive. It’s coming such a long way in such a short time, it’s winning battle after internal, infernal battle. It’s learning to flourish, to grow, to  _ want  _ despite the nagging voice in the back of his head that keeps yelling at him to end it all and be done with it.

It is fruitfulness, it is hollyhocks and Misty’s smile and evidence that his mother and all the Blacks before her have been right.

Nothing truly is for nothing.

  
  


\----------

  
  
  


On Wednesday morning, Draco finds himself back in Howie’s, just to test out color schemes.

“Silver and gold?” Howie asks, “Of course we’ve got that! Though it’s mainly with other colors, not many are a fan of plain old metallics, you know.”

He takes them over to the paints-the ones that are amazingly still on sale- and starts handing out pamphlets.

“Let’s see now….we’ve got a few different golds, same with silvers, and some pairing sheets- are there any off limit colors?”

“Green.” Misty scowls.

“Pink.” Draco rolls his eyes, “Preferably no red, orange, or yellow either.”

Howie makes a face, “Yellow and gold? Absolutely not, though I have to point out how well red goes with metallics-” He takes a good look at Draco’s face and laughs, “Alright! Alright! No red.”

They spend what feels like  _ hours  _ going through colors, talking through them, pointedly avoiding green and pink even though they  _ do  _ end up looking at a few rubies.

“It just feels too... _ bold.”  _ Draco explains after he muses how pretty ruby and gold look together, “For Merlin’s sake these are supposed to be  _ guest rooms  _ not-'' He blushes. He'd rather not tell Howie, or Misty for that matter, why he’s against having a  _ red room.  _ The last time he checked, rooms like that were for sex and sex alone, and while he’s certainly no virgin, he’s also not about to explain his questionable knowledge to Misty’s innocent eyes  _ or  _ an friendly old wizard.

Unfortunately, Howie seems to catch his meaning and quickly bites his lip to avoid laughing. “Fair, that’s-” He chuckles. “- _ Merlin,  _ no  _ red rooms,  _ then.” Draco flushes, avoiding both the twinkling brown eyes of Howie and Misty’s curious round ones. “What about...you said guest rooms, right? Think about the types of guests you’d have over, you’d want them to be comfortable in your home, right?”

Draco nods.

And then forces himself not to panic.

There are very few people he could see himself opening his house up to. Kingsley is a given, but to let the man spend the night there? Sure, Draco wouldn’t leave him out on the street, but Kingsley would also  _ never  _ sleep anywhere but his own house. Years of being an Auror does that to a person. His mother is another special case. He’d never,  _ never,  _ deny her anything. However, his mother has never slept in a bed that she doesn’t call her own. The only bed he’s ever seen her sleep in, other than the one at the Manor, is her bed in his Grandmother’s villa, which is apparently her home now, and Draco knows for a  _ fact  _ that he could offer her any bed in his house and she’d say no to every last one of them because they aren’t  _ her  _ bed.

Which leaves him with three people.

Luna, obviously, because his little cousin is everything to him. She was there for him no matter what he did, no matter what type of trouble he got her into, no matter how many times he begged her to hate him, she never did. No matter how mean he was to her, she’d always hug him. No matter how annoying he was, she always just smiled. And when he found her, when he gave her an address and told her to run, when he killed the Death Eater trying to kill her, she didn’t blink an eyelash. She trusted him fully and blindly, and Draco’s never been able to repay her. Not like she deserves.

Then there’s the other female in his life, Pansy. The girl he grew up with, the one who wanted to get Draco out of the Mark, out of the ‘freakish cult’ at the risk of her own life. The girl who dared him to buy muggle clothes, who went swimming with him in the Black Lake, who held nearly all of the Slytherins together at one point or another. Over protective, bratish, annoying, lovely and terrifying Pansy who he misses so much he can taste it.

If Pansy was the  _ incarcerous  _ holding him together, Blasie was the knife that freed him.

He was the mastermind behind several of their pranks, a talented peacekeeper. The only people who could ever tell if he was being friendly or just gaining alleys were him and Pansy, and they saw through everything. The lies, the jokes, the mask Blaise perfected. He forced Draco to question  _ everything.  _ To wonder  _ why  _ things were a certain way, if they’d be better off changed. So, so,  _ so  _ many times he turned Draco’s world completely on its head, and then proceeded to help him build it back to its former glory.

Naturally, seeing that Pansy is more like fire and Blaise is more like ice, they fought constantly. And it would be up to Draco to force them to stop acting like children, berating them until they eventually made up.

The last time he saw them, they were berating  _ him.  _

For not running away, for taking the Mark, for not talking about The Task. He wonders if they’d yell at him for leaving, or kill him for not telling them first.

“Are you sure?”

Draco blinks. He looks around to see Howie and Misty looking at him, each with concern and curiosity in their faces.

In his hands he holds two paint colors that nearly make him laugh.

Purple, because Pansy loved having a color that mimicked her name, but hated the color pink. It’s a light, almost lilac purple, right next to a glittering silver that reminds Draco of his mother’s crystals.

In his other hands is blue, the color Blaise picked when he and Pansy were arguing over colors that match with their names. Draco vividly remembers Blaise shivering when Pansy casually brought up  _ burgundy.  _ A beautiful sky color, with a pale gold to go with it.

He wonders if they remember his own chosen color, de york. He remembers them laughing at him, telling him it barely counts, but accepting it anyways. Yes, they teased him for picking  _ green  _ of all things, but never really questioned it, even if they did tell him that it was practically the same as pistachio green. 

Three people, three stupid colors, and three different inside jokes, all from one conversation.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Surprisingly, despite the emotional turmoil Draco is going through, finishing the guest rooms is easy once he and Misty have the colors down.

He still refuses to have dark wood in his house, so they get light bed frames, one gorsedd panel, silver leaves edging along the ends of the thing for Pansy’s room, and one beauvier french cane frame in pale gold for Blaise. He gets the most luxurious wizard’s sheets Howie has on hand, one in lilac and one in baby blue, pairing them with pillows of blue, purple, gold and silver. Naturally he  _ has  _ to include two wizard’s wardrobes, not as big as his but big enough, spelled to have clothing that both fits  _ and  _ pleases the person who opens them. One white with little purple flowers for handles, and the other a pale wooden color with blue jewels instead of knobs. He wonders if the jewels are aquamarines or sapphires, hopefully the former. Blasie always said sapphires were common.

Howie takes them over a few isles to look at decorations, but Draco doesn’t really like any of them, and then Misty points out that they still have to do the conjoining bathroom, so the three of them wander to the plumbing area of the store. He’s against the idea of having a super colorful bathroom, but Misty manges to talk him into ridiculous things like pale blue cabinets, a stupid silver-gold sink, and an even dumber white shower curtain that has lavenders and bluebells climbing up it.

Thankfully, he manages to win the argument that the bathtub, toilet, and floors should be white. Misty fights him tooth and nail until he agrees to have a sliver shower head, and she completely  _ refuses  _ to budge on the stupid fucking bath shelf that’s spelled to have people’s favorite supplies magically appear whenever they enter.

They grab a few more things on the way out of Yellow Brick road, a few plants, a couple of books that the bookshop owner, Jessica, has to flag him down and tell him about. Their last stop is Mrs. Daisy’s bakery. She still refuses to let him pay, but she  _ adores  _ Misty.

Since she gives them several bags with various goodies, Draco sends Misty home to put the perishables away while he ventures into the muggle shopping districts alone.

Getting decorations for guest rooms is as easy as breathing. Glass spun lamps, a few odd trinkets that remind Draco of Luna, two white rugs, two bookcases, white towels because Misty isn’t with him to say otherwise. At his fifth store he pauses to wonder where the hell she is, but then he remembers that she can’t do her disguise by herself and continues on.

Hopefully she won’t be too mad at him.

By four, Draco has pretty much everything he needs, and a few things he doesn’t. He returns to the cottage, goes straight up the stairs, and then freezes on the spot.

“Misty?”

There’s a pop to his left, Misty squeals as soon as she sees him. “Mister Draco! Do you be liking it?”

Now, Draco understands filling up space, but when he was focusing on finishing the house, he didn’t really think spaces like this would count. In the large space between his bedroom and Alex’s old bathroom, there are two bay windows, overlooking the ocean in the best way possible. If Draco had been in charge of furnishing the gap, he would’ve stuck a couch to overlook the sea and called it a day.

Misty did not do that.

Misty has, probably, burned a giant hole in his bank account yet again.

There  _ is  _ a couch, two almost burnt coral ones, back to back in the middle of the gap. One faces a  _ gigantic  _ bookcase, one that takes up all of the wall that connects with Draco’s room, filled with books, plants, little paintings and other odds and ends. Just like in the library, there are window seats, coffee tables in front of each couch, side tables with candles and plants on either side of the couches, a huge pale rug covering most of the area between the walls, but what really grabs Draco’s attention is the  _ thing  _ in front of the other couch. 

On the wall, the one with Alex’s old bathroom on the other side, is a large, black, rectangle, and a shelf with two strange boxes, all with the same strange green runes.

“Misty….what  _ is  _ that?!”

“It is being a telly, sir!”

“A-a what?”

A telly. A  _ wizard’s television.  _ Modeled to function after the muggle’s television, but tuned to work with magic, to pick up wizarding  _ and  _ muggle stations. Draco learns that the strange thin box looking thing on the coffee table is a  _ remote,  _ to change stations. According to the sales person, the white box is something called a  _ speaker  _ that holds music on the inside, and the black box next to it is apparently  _ hooked to the telly,  _ and allows people to play  _ games.  _

Draco, personally, doesn’t understand how the hell someone is supposed to play Quidditch on a large black screen, but Misty apparently got him a book to go with it, so he’ll figure it out eventually.

As soon as she’s done explaining the gap, Misty pulls him over to the small hidden nook. He gets a glimpse of a beautiful teal grand piano outside his bedroom door as she tugs him, and he briefly wonders when the  _ hell  _ she did all this-  _ and  _ how long, exactly, she’s been planning because he knows for a fact that the pictures hanging in front of the piano are from the thrift shop in Silverburn, and they’ve only been there twice, once when he first started this whole house remodeling business, and the second time he knows for a  _ fact  _ Misty wasn’t with him. To say he has questions is an understatement. What he’d like to have is a straight up interrogation, but Misty shoves him forward to look into the nook.

It’s still small, he’s not sure what else he was expecting, honestly. 

There’s a comfortable looking, plush and clean forest green armchair, a small lamp positioned to glow right over the chair, a small coffee table, a rug, and a few paintings. 

“It is being a  _ reading nook,  _ sir.”

He’d like to point out that they have  _ several  _ of those, but she’s dragging him along to look at the rest of the decorations before he can.

Things like paintings, plants, pictures, baskets and sleeping spots for Salem, and finally, a stand for about ten different plants at the end of the hallway, next to the guest rooms and Alex’s old room.

As soon as she’s done, Draco whirls on her and crosses his arms, his left eyebrow going up so he can fix her with his most intimidating, questioning look.

“Where did all of this come from?”

“From Mister Draco’s and Misty’s trips, of course.”

He doesn’t believe her for one second, but he also can’t figure out  _ how  _ she did it, much less  _ when.  _ So he lets her pull him into the guest bedrooms, finishing it up until they’re staring at the finished products.

Pansy’s guest room is mostly purple, silver and white. The bed, the rug, the side tables, the sheets, the little chasie at the foot of the bed, the wardrobe all tying together in a lovely blend of the three colors. But, because he is a little bit of an ass, there’s a bit of pink in the curtains, a circular mirror because Misty refuses to let them have  _ normal square mirrors.  _ She also refuses to have a room without plants, which is how five different bushes find their home is Pansy’s room. Since he was the one to pick most of the decorations, there’s nothing too eccentric. Just a few impressionist paintings, a few variously shaped glass spun objects, the glass spun bedside lamps. 

Misty’s need for colorful bathrooms beat him in the guest one. She  _ forces  _ him into agreeing that the top part of the walls should be lilac, the bottom and the border white. At least he still has his normal appliances, and since she wasn’t with him, a normal, white, fluffy rug for the room.

Blaise’s guest room, the one closest to the stairs, gets the same treatment as Pansy’s. Mostly pale gold, blue, and white, though with different paintings since Blasie always preached that pink is a  _ wonderful  _ color. Draco’s mostly convinced he did it just to piss off Pansy, but he has to admit that the pink line work looks pretty good against the light blue walls, and that the white rug looks better with pink bits woven into it. He couldn’t stop himself from getting curtains with a bit of green in them, so faint Misty barley notices it. 

All in all, the rooms are perfect. Impersonal enough that whoever has the unfortunate experience of staying in his home won’t notice. At the same time, so boldly meant for two people that it’s honestly a little embarrassing.

He’s cooking with Misty- turkey and zucchini rounds tonight- when he realizes that the guest rooms are done and that means-

“We’re done with the house.”

Misty pauses from cutting zucchini rolls, “We is not being done.”

“Not done?!  _ Misty.  _ There isn’t a room left! We’ve done the entire floor, even the bloody potion’s lab- and now the second floor- Merlin’s sake we’ve even done the outside- we’re-! We-!”

“Mister Draco is forgetting Miss Alex’s bedroom.”

Draco frowns, the elevation of finally being  _ done  _ fleeing from him.

“The child’s room? You want to redo it? I thought we’d just use it as storage or something, it’s not like I’m going to be having a child anytime soon.”

“Does Mister Draco not be wanting children?”

“Not in the slightest. There…” Draco peers into the pasta he’s stirring. “There was a contract, once. Between a girl named Astoria and I. Father made it, you understand, wanted to ensure we had an heir to the Malfoy name, but considering that he’s in Azkaban now I don’t think it matters much.”

Misty places her knife down, grabs a handful of turkey and stuffs it into the little zucchini round. “Mister Draco be needing to have someone around him.”

“I have you, and Salem for that matter.”

_ “Yes,  _ but we is not being wizards. If Mister Draco is not having interactions with other wizards, he is going to be going mad and that is a type of madness that Misty can’t be saving him from.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at her, turning the part of the stove he’s working on off so he doesn’t burn pasta for the second time. “I do have other wizards to interact with. There’s Howie, and Mrs. Daisy. Merlin, I wouldn’t even mind seeing Carla and June again, not to mention that Sal and Willie accost me every time they see me. I think we’ll be fine without a child, we can always just turn that room into a storeroom or whatever.”

Misty gives him a look, full of disbelief but considering all the same. “We be doing it tomorrow, then. If Mister Draco is sure.”

Draco’s never been more confused. Why wouldn’t he be sure? He’s never liked children all that much, and while being alone isn’t all that fun it’s not like it will be the death of him.

He’s been through Azkaban, the Dark Lord, glares from Slytherins, severe torture, and much,  _ much  _ worse than simple loneliness.

“I’m sure.”

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


“So this is it, then?” Howie asks.

It’s been a weird morning.

Misty let him sleep until noon, said since the house is done after today there’s no longer a need to wake up before eight. Strange, coming from the elf that woke up at six to tend to the plants, but Draco  _ loves  _ his new bed so he didn’t complain.

He did nearly have a heart attack when he saw Salem trying to  _ bite  _ one of Misty’s plants, though.

And that’s the whole reason he took the Kneazle kitten with the two of them today. So that Misty, hopefully,  _ never  _ finds bite marks in her plant’s foliage. He doesn’t think she’d hurt the kitten, but he’s definitely not willing to risk it.

The other weird part of his morning is the fact that Howie, for once, is not happy to see him.

He was at first, all bright and cheerful like normal, and then Draco told him they’re doing the last room today and all the joy on the old man’s face vanished.

“You’re, um, done with the house after this, so you won’t be coming to visit anymore, will you?”

Draco gives him a startled stare, and then nods ever so slightly. “I’ll still be coming to town, of course. I think Mrs. Daisy might bite my head off if I don’t visit her on Mondays, but I’m not too sure-”

“Mrs. Daisy?  _ Oh!  _ Daisy May’s gone and adopted you, hasn’t she?”

“Sir?”

Howie flashes him a smile. “We shopkeepers have our favorites, you know. I daresay we’ve been fighting over you since the first day you visited Little Alice, but if Daisy’s got her claws in you I guess it might put an end to things. What day does she have you stopping by?”

“Monday?” 

“Perfect! I’ll be sure to stop by then, let you know about any new products, and test out Daisy’s new flavors, of course.”

“Right….”

He pays for the paints and the shelves, turning on Misty the second they’re out of the shop. “That was weird, right?”

Misty just sighs. “He is going to be  _ missing  _ you, Mister Draco.”

Why on earth would he do that?

Misty saves him from his questioning by dragging him home.

All in all, they finish the house before three thirty and Draco...well, he feels a bit empty. The store room was nothing to set up, the shelves aren’t even filled with odds and ends, nothing like the kitchen, the garden, or even Misty’s bedroom.

In the wake of being done, Draco finds himself going from room to room, smiling like an idiot at how good everything look, how much his and Misty’s styles have combined to make something perfect.

Something that isn’t like the Manor at all.

Something warm and inviting. Safe and filled with careful consideration. A place where he can hide from Dementors, sleep without laying on the floor, somewhere that he can exist freely.

Salem brushes against his leg as he stares into the potion’s lab, purring ever so slightly, like he too is content.

Draco picks him up, turns on his heel, and starts making his way to the kitchen for lunch.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


In the aftermath of the following two days, Draco doesn’t do too much. 

Well, he does, but not his previous consideration of ‘much’.

He reads through all of his manuels, the ones to the telly, the remote, the speaker and the blasted computer. He finally makes it through  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,  _ he suffers through his cooking lessons with Misty, thinks about his past life and if his friends are doing okay, works on his tapestry, and sleeps more than Misty thinks he should.

Currently, he sits in the living room on Friday night, idly flipping through some H.P. Lovecraft novel, while Luna’s  _ Penthouse  _ plays in the background. He’s gotten the record purely because the musician shared a name with his cousin, and Misty’s been picking on him because it’s apparently perfect for his current status: rich, pretty, young, and miserably lonely.

He’s been telling her that he’s not lonely, and he isn’t, but after the fifth comment he’s just been rolling his eyes and pretending like he doesn’t hear her.

Engrossing himself in books has proven sufficient in actually  _ not  _ hearing her, which is great, on the one hand. But on the other hand, it also means he completely misses the three little blue balls shifting into people right in front of him.

Well, he does until one of them clears her throat.

“Merlin-!  _ Emilia?  _ What are you-the full moon.”

Emilia Prynne smiles warmly down at him.

To her left is Gardon Prynne, looking nothing like Draco expected him to. In his mind he pictured a small, sort of skinny and meek little man, and here Gorden stands, in all his ghostly blue glory, ridiculously tall and offendingly muscular.

“ ‘ello, Draco. It’s lovely to meet you, this is Alex, of course.” 

Alexandria Prynne is exactly like Draco’s pictured her. Small, with big round eyes and long curly hair that dangles down her back. He can make out a few freckles on her ghostly hue, but the warm smile completely throws him off guard.

“I love Misty’s room, Mister Draco! Mummy said you did a good job, but  _ I  _ think you did the  _ best  _ job!”

“I-” Draco takes a deep breath, “Thank you, Miss Alex. Would you like me to get her? I’m sure she’d love to see you-”

“Time limit, dear.” Emilia reminds him, “And we have something to discuss with you.”

That probably shouldn’t strike dread into him, but it does. “Oh...I, um, finished the house? Isn’t that- I mean, you  _ did  _ ask me to-”

“Draco, dear, you haven’t finished the house.”

What?

“What do you mean I haven’t-”

“You’ve done the rooms up,” Gardon hastily explains, “You’ve  _ fixed  _ the house, but you haven’t finished it, not really.”

“How the bloody-” Draco pauses, looks at Alex, and then back to her parents, “How will I know when it’s finished?”

“You won’t.” Emilia says, grin wide and shit eating, even if she  _ is  _ dead.

“Only the house knows when it’s done,” Gardon explains, shooting his wife a nasty look, “It’s...complicated. We don’t know how it works either, but the thing is-”

“Gardon.” Emilia warns.

Little Alex looks between them, smiling so sadly that, in the moment, Draco would give anything to cheer her up. “It’s okay, mummy, Mister Draco deserves to know. He has to know if he’s gonna help us.”

Gardon rests his giant hand on Alex’s back, looking expectantly at Emilia who sighs. “Fine, but if he runs away screaming, I’m blaming it on you.”

“What...what’s going on?” Draco asks cautiously.

The way Emilia’s ghostly form sits down on his couch unnerves him in the worst way possible. 

“This house...is strange, Draco. You must know that. It’s not dangerous, it is just connected to the ocean, so the magic it has is greater than any normal magical house. It...well, when we died, the house was going through shock. Too many tragic occurrences all at once, you understand. Because of that, the house, well, it latched onto us. It’s keeping us stranded in between it and the ocean, and we can only appear during the full moon at high tide because-”

“Because that’s when the ocean is at its strongest.” Draco whispers. “Are you- are you saying that-” 

“We can’t fully pass on until the house is complete. We’re basically stuck.”

“And  _ I’m  _ supposed to fix that?!”

“Yes.”

Draco stares at her, the way her hand laces with Gardon’s meat claw, the way they hold Little Alex between them. “How?”

“Simple.” Emilia smiles. “You finish the house.”

  
  


\----------

  
  
  


“Finish the house? It  _ is  _ finished.” Kingsley says that following Sunday.

The last day passed in a weird golden haze. Draco’s started Misty on her alphabet book, she hates it just as much as he thought she would, no surprise there. But, he does bribe her with willingly going along with his cooking lessons, and that’s worked wonders.

Keeping to their promise of not doing work on the weekends ended with Draco absolutely falling in love with his little canopy. He’s taken to sitting outside on the L-shaped couch, reading in the afternoon sun, or pointing out constellations to Misty when she joins him. He managed to talk her into letting him back into the Potion’s Lab, and that only lasted for a few hours until she dragged him out to help with dinner.

And now he’s here, nodding along to Kingsely’s statement. “Exactly! But apparently it’s not  _ finished finished,  _ which doesn’t make any sense, but it  _ is  _ a magical house…”

“Pesky little-actually, I probably shouldn’t finish that statement.”

They’re in the kitchen, being subjected to another one of Misty’s cooking lessons, this time carefully cutting chicken under her watchful gaze.

“Mister Kingsley should be being careful,” She says, “The house is choosing Mister Draco, but it is not taking kindly to insults, sir.”

“Well that’s comforting.”

“No it’s not.” Draco snorts, narrowly missing his finger with a sharp blade, “But it  _ is  _ confusing. I don’t know what to do now. I’ve gotten out of the Manor, fixed the house the best I know how, and now the only obligations I have is meeting Mrs. Daisy on Mondays.”

“Mrs. Daisy?”

Draco sighs. He then finds himself recounting the oddities of the shopkeepers he’s suddenly become privy to, spilling ever last thing he told to Mrs. Daisy, and that, for some weird reason, makes Kingsley laugh.

“So you’re greatest weakness is sweet, elderly women.”

“I think we both know that’s a lie.”

They eat in comfortable silence, the scraping of knives and forks on plates and Salem’s occasional ‘meow’.

And then Draco nods to Misty and summons the letter to his mother.

Kingsley gives him a look. “What is-”

“It’s for my mum. I...I finally wrote her back, but I haven’t got an owl, so I was wondering if you'd be willing to drop it off the next time you see her.”

The Head Auror’s face softens a fraction, a small smile tugging at his lips, eyes fond without a trace of pity. “Of course I will.”

A few more beats of quiet pass after Draco hands the letter over, and then Kingsley clears his throat.

“She wants you to be happy, you know. The last time I saw her she went on and on about how you never got to live, not really. Between your Malfoy Lessons, the snake bastard, and your expectations….I think she just wants you to give living a try, you know?”

“Living? I  _ am  _ living-”

“No,” Kingsley sighs, “Not just existing, Draco. She wants you to  _ enjoy  _ life. Wants you to wake up smiling, find purpose, be  _ happy.  _ She’s your mother, Draco, that’s all she’s ever wanted for you.”

Draco thinks back to Narcissa’s letter. To her smile whenever he messed up, to her laugh when he dived into the pools, or her warmth when they walked through the gardens. He thinks about her holding him through his nightmares, singing some old French song to calm him down, threading a hand through his hair. How she was willing to sacrifice  _ everything  _ for him. Her fame, her fortune, her husband, her  _ life.  _ All because he is her son. 

Her fucked up, well-meaning, probably depressed son.

“You know,” Draco says after a moment. “All I’ve ever wanted is for her to be happy too. She deserves that, at the least.”

“I know,” Kingsley nods back. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not speak french so if I messed up the translation I am SO sorry!!


	5. New Routines

Draco finds himself falling into a routine of sorts.

Strange, because routines have always made him anxious. Puffing himself up to look like the perfect pureblood son, going through the motions so his facade won’t crack, not really caring one way or another. Sixth year had the worst routine of all: wake up, be late to class, skip lunch to deal with the Room of Requirement, have an anxiety attack in the bathroom, manage a few bites at dinner, and finally cry himself to sleep thinking of the various ways one Dark Lord could kill his mother.

And then the summer of seventh year happened and routine turned into habits he needed for survival. He spent _hours_ perfecting his mask because if someone saw through it they would kill him. He spent so many afternoons training, then half way participating in raids, torture, even murder before he was allowed to go back to Hogwarts.

Not that returning to Hogwarts meant anything good. 

By October of his final year, he was straying from his routine. Straying from safety, security. Taking any risk he could because he couldn’t bear to walk down those halls and not _do_ anything. 

He’d sneak people out if he could, heal the worst of the Carrow’s damage before levitating broken students to Pomphrey. He stopped torture, offered up hidden rooms, confused Death Eaters so the students would be safe. 

Not that his actions mattered then, either. Because after the stunt Aunt Bella pulled over Christmas break, he couldn’t go back. Couldn’t ‘risk’ disappointing the Dark Lord again, much less his father.

Draco wonders how either one of them would react to the routine he’s built the past few months.

On Mondays, he ventures out to Yellow Brick Rd., stopping by Mrs. Daisy’s shop. The second time he did it, Howie was waiting with a big grin on his face, much to Mrs. Daisy’s annoyance, and from then on it became common to see various shop owners coming in just to see him. 

Regardless of whether or not she sees him on Monday, Carla will send a Patronus to him on Tuesday so the two of them, and June, can meet for lunch. That usually leads to a potions lessons for June, or a stupid debate with Carla that Draco pretends to hate. Sometimes Howie or Mrs. Daisy will join them, there was even one time that Mrs. Alice sat with them through tea and finger cakes.

By Wednesday, Misty is tired of him going places without her, so they find little places to take small visits to. Her favorites are parks, conservatories, and the zoo. Draco, on the other hand, prefers to get coffee and mule about. Sometimes they’ll go to museums and Draco will explain the muggle objects he understands, sometimes they just walk around and take in the sights and smells. Misty’s been bugging him about seeing a movie for the past week, but Draco’s more inclined to take her to a play first. 

Thursdays are work from home days. He and Misty tend to the gardens, do laundry, all various house upkeep things. He’ll typically read a ‘How To’ book, mess around in the Lab, play on the computer for a bit until Misty calls him for their shows, which he still doesn’t like. She found the first one on a lazy afternoon, playing with the remote, idly petting Salem. Something called Mr. Bean, but it really feels like watching the same show over and over. He really doesn’t know what’s worse, that or the American sitcoms Misty keeps managing to find. First it was Full House, then The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, then Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which isn’t realistic _at all),_ and now she’s moved onto something called Golden Girls.

Draco doesn’t care for most of them, doesn’t care for the telly at all, really, but he dutifully watches it with her every Thursday night, each of them working on their respective sides of their tapestry.

Because they always stay up too late on Thursday, Friday mornings are typically lazy. They’ll make breakfast together, around one Draco will venture into town for June’s _real_ potions lesson. The lessons are typically interrupted by Willie, who’s dying to get a headstart for when he goes to Hogwarts next year, but Sal always comes and finds him after an hour, and then treats Draco and June to dinner for the trouble. He always asks a million questions about Draco’s wand, always repeating the same ones from the Friday before, always slightly annoying, but Willie’s always a little interested, so Draco typically lets it slide.

Saturdays are the days he doesn’t have to do anything. He stays in bed as long as he wants to, gets up to wash his face, pads downstairs for brunch, reads a little bit, tinkers with a few things here and there, pittles around on his computer, and always ends up reading himself to sleep.

And then there’s Sundays. 

For whatever reason, Kingsley has started coming around noon, spending half the day with Draco, and doesn’t leave until eight at night. Usually it’s because Kingsley is updating him on the world he left, telling him about the Ministry, how his mother is doing, any weird happenings that Draco might have insight on. It always feels a bit like saying goodbye to an old friend when he leaves, but Draco doesn’t mind, because he has Misty and Salem.

He sees them every day, sees each of his other friends once a week, and visits with the Pyrenees every full moon. 

Plus, he has his routine, which starts all over again on Monday.

Currently, he sits in Mrs. Daisy’s shop, trying her latest creation: a matcha chai.

“It’s just...chalky?”

“Bad chakly?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a _good_ chalky.”

“There isn’t.” Mrs. Daisy sighs, “At least my oat milk has gotten better...but I can’t do much about the matcha, I haven’t the faintest clue on how to make _that.”_

She bustles around the cafe for a few minutes, then plops a new cup of coffee in front of Draco, “Here, Dearie, this is your favorite.”

Draco grins at her.

They end up debating over different flavor combinations for matcha, things like honey, almond, and chocolate because one can never go wrong with chocolate. In the midst of their debate, they completely miss the door opening, even with Mrs. Daisy’s little bell to alert them.

What they don’t miss is a strangely familiar voice croaking out: “Draco?”

Now, there aren’t many people here who say his name like that. Like he’s some sort of ghost. Nearly everyone here says his name with joy, hidden laughter, sometimes faint amusement masked by annoyance, but mostly the sound of his name is positive. Not spoken in a rasp, some sort of bewildered awe mixed with sorrow and hope.

The only person that might come close to that is June. So, Draco swivels in his chair, fully prepared to go deal with some horrifying potion mishap, and then freezes on the spot.

Curly brown hair, bright honey eyes, clad in a pale grey business suit and a salmon tie, and standing at a solid 5 feet and 9 inches is Theodore Nott.

Theo, who was the quietest of all his Slytherins. Nose constantly in a book, smiles hidden behind pages. He was the most withdrawn, and Draco didn’t consider him a friend until fourth year, honestly. Granted, war tends to bring people closer and Theo _was_ the one to help him smuggle people out of Hogwarts back in seventh year. 

Theo was on Pansy and Blaise’s side that seventh year Yule Break, pleading with him not to go, to just _stay_ or sneak away himself. He was the one who brought _facts_ to the argument of why Draco shouldn’t have gotten the Mark. 

He is also not supposed to be here, in Mrs. Daisy’s shop, letting his briefcase fall from his left hand while the right one covers his mouth.

“D-Draco? You’re-you’re _alive.”_

“Theo,” Draco manages, “Yes, I am, I mean-what are you doing here?”

Theo moves forward as though cornering a scared animal, timid and not quite believing what he’s seeing. “I have a business,” He says, still with that ghostly voice, “But that doesn’t matter-how are you _here?_ You-we all thought-”

He stands right in front of Draco, hands reaching out and then pausing. As though he’s afraid Draco might vanish if he touches him.

“Thought what? Who’s we? Theo, what are you talking about-”

Theo was never an affectionate person. Draco’s only received two hugs from the boy, one when Draco received the Mark and one when his friends were begging him not to go to the Manor. Even then the hugs had been short, just quick, one-armed, mostly pats. 

Which is why Draco is properly shocked when Theo completely engulfs him. Arms circle around his shoulder, a hand cradles his head, Theo’s own head finds a spot right between Draco’s neck and his shoulder.

“Oh _Merlin._ They said the Manor burned down back in April, and we hadn’t heard from you at all-not even during the trial- and we, we thought you were _dead,_ Draco. Thought you’d burned, or- _or offed yourself_ and I-” Theo takes a big breath. “Pans has been going _mental_ for months now and B-Blaise-”

“They’re alive?” Draco asks.

Theo just nods.

It’s nice, Theo’s hug. Warm, but not uncomfortably so. Something he honestly never thought he’d get to experience again. His friend smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, with just a hint of old spice and it takes him back to simpler times, back when he, Theo, and Blaise would argue over who smelled the best. 

Draco always won those arguments. He wonders if he still would.

“Theo,” He says, gently pulling away, “Would...would you like to come back to mine? Catch up a bit?”

Mrs. Daisy gasps behind them, and Draco realizes with horror that she’s been listening in this whole time. By this afternoon every last one of the nosey shopkeepers will know about this, and _that_ is going to be an issue. June and Carla have been hounding him about seeing his Lab, and Howie’s been practically _begging_ to see his completed cottage. He’s managed to keep telling them ‘no’, but here is a stranger (to them, at least) that Draco’s completely comfortable letting into his house. 

His shopkeepers are _not_ going to be happy.

“You’re letting _him_ see it?” Mrs. Daisy exclaims, proving his point entirely.

“He’s an old friend.”

Mrs. Daisy huffs, producing two bags stuffed full of goodies and treats for him and Misty. “For the road, then. Let me know if you like them, Dearie, and _you.”_ She turns on Theo, that sharp glare Draco hasn’t seen in _months_ coming back full force, “You hurt one little hair on this man’s body and you’ll be on _several_ hit lists, understand?”

 _“Mrs. Daisy!_ You can’t just _threaten_ people!”

“If Misty can do it I can too.”

“Misty doesn’t threaten people like _that!_ I’ll have you know that I’ve taught her discretion!”

Mrs. Daisy gives him a look, but she still refuses to let him pay so Draco’s totally in the clear. 

He quickly shoves one of the bags into a shaken Theo’s arms, grabs his briefcase off the floor, and steers him out of Mrs. Daisy’s shop so they can aparate back to the cottage.

Misty is not happy that he’s brought a guest unannounced.

“Mister Draco! You is being home-who is this? You did not tell Misty to be expecting guests!”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s a bit unexpected.”

Misty glares at him, taking the bags he hands her and turning to smile at Theo. She even bows in her pretty dandelion dress, “It is lovely to be meeting you, sir, Misty will make tea right away!”

“We’ll be in the living room!” Draco tells her, dragging Theo along as the man appears to be short circuiting at the moment.

They don’t speak again until Theo’s sat on the couch opposite of him, taking in the sights with a sort of morbid realization. “There...there are so many plants.”

“Yeah, Misty is a bit of a plant finatic, but they’re scientifically proven to make people feel better, and I quite like them.”

“You...your walls are pink..and- _is that a pink shell chair?”_

Draco shrugs, “It’s Misty’s.”

“Misty, your house elf, has her own chair?”

“Yes? I’ll have you know this is more her house than it is mine.”

“It is being _our_ house, Mister Draco.” Misty scolds as she pads into the room. _“Technically,_ the house has been choosing you, sir, so it _is_ your house, Mister Draco.”

Draco rolls his eyes at her antics, but she brought him her special calming tea, made with lavender from her own garden, so he lets the comment slide.

Theo watches on with wide eyes as they bicker, like some sort of child watching their first tennis match. 

“Mister Draco could’ve _warned_ Misty!”

“I didn’t know he was coming!”

“Still-”

 _“Misty,_ love, you _know_ I’d never offend you! You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, honest!”

Misty narrows her big black eyes, “You is saying that about the bath too!”

“It’s a good bath!” Draco defends, “And I love you more, you know that.”

She seems pleased by that, tutting ever so lightly with a grin spreading across her little elf face. “Misty is loving Mister Draco too! She is being in the green house, sir! And, Mister Draco’s friend,” She turns to Theo, “Welcome to our home, sir!”

“Right…” Theo offers weakly, watching her walk out the door like he’s never seen a house elf before, “Your home, the two of you. Together. _Merlin above Draco Malfoy is sharing with a house elf.”_

He proceeds to break down in hysterical laughter and Draco hasn’t the faintest clue why. 

“Theo- _hey!-_ it’s not funny! I’ll have you know that I’d be dead if it weren’t for Misty!”

Theo chokes on his own laughter, “I’m pretty sure you are dead and I’m just hallucinating. Maybe Daphne drugged me when I wasn’t looking.”

“Daphne? Greengrass? Why would she-”

“Oh, Draco,” Theo looks up, his eyes brimming over with fondness, tears, and disbelief alike. “You’ve been gone for so long….you’re-” He takes a deep breath, “You’re _here._ You’re _alive!”_

“Yes, I’m pretty sure we’ve covered that already. Are you going to keep laughing at me or tell me what the hell I’ve been missing?”

It takes a second for Theo to calm down enough to start explaining, still choking back both laughter and tears.

Turns out Draco wasn’t the only one who had trouble adjusting.

After Vince’s death, Greg was inconsolable. Back in Azkaban, Draco would hear him screaming every last damn day. Always asking for Vince, always wondering why it was so cold, calling out to see if Vince was cold too. Once his trial was over, he didn’t have anywhere to go, so Daphne took him in. Apparently he’s a bit of a ghost now, wandering from room to room like he’s still looking for Vince. Theo tells him that it breaks Daphne’s heart.

Draco’s never been close with the Greengrasses, mostly because of their father’s drama. Lucius snubbed Sir Greengrass _once_ and suddenly there was a feud going on. Not that it evolved to anything. In school, Draco stayed out of the Greengrass sisters’ way and they didn’t bother him, so it was a win-win situation. And then, back in fifth year, the Dark Lord came back, and Draco found himself bound to Astoria Greengrass to produce an heir. He’s still not sure _why,_ much less _how,_ that bond came to be, all he knows is that it ended when Lucius died.

He hasn’t thought about them since he went into Azkaban, and now he’s stuck as Theo tells him all about Astoria’s new orphanage and Daphne’s mind healer apprenticeship. Though a joint effort, the girls have been aiding every last magical soul to lose a parent in the war. It took a month of planning, and would’ve taken longer if it weren’t for one Hermione Granger using her pull in the Ministry _and_ St. Muggos to get them going. 

“They’re amazing, Draco. I mean-Daph is helping anyone she can get her hands on and Astoria! She’s a bloody madwoman! It’s impressive as _hell,_ she’s not only taking anyone under seventeen, but she’s housing all sorts of magical creature children! You should’ve been there last month! Some Ministry idiot tried to take her werewolf kids away and she called _Hermione_ for backup! You know what they did?”

Draco shakes his head ‘no’, because he does, in fact, not know anything.

“They _spat in his face!_ Literally! Pans didn’t think Hermione had it in her, but _Merlin,_ bring up werewolf rights around that woman and you’d think someone tried to offend _her._ It really is something, you simply _have_ to see it.”

A shiver of terror rips down Draco’s spine. Personally, he never wants to see Granger angry again. His cheek hurts just thinking about it. Fortunately, he has more important things to think about.

“Pans? You said-”

Theo’s eyes soften.

Pansy made it to Japan all those months ago.

She wasn’t caught, wasn’t tortured or forced to participate in a war she hated, and she _certainly_ isn’t dead.

Apparently, her and Blaise have been out raising hell together.

It started with his trial. 

He hadn’t seen them there, all he could focus on was the wood in front of his seat. He didn’t even hear his long list of acquisitions, just Potter protesting his return to Azkaban and Kingsley leading him away to the Manor.

They were there. More importantly, they were the ones who got his defense together. _They_ called up and paid for their best atternories, _they_ hunted down Potter and begged him to stand trial- even though that was apparently happening regardless of what _anyone_ had to say about it. They were in the crowd, boiling over with rage at his appearance, his weight, the bags under his eyes and his dead expression. 

They also, apparently, went to the Ministry every single day after he was released. Demanding to see him, threatening legal action, pointing out that the Ministry never even offered him a Mind Healer for the months he spent in the hell hole. The Ministry was on the verge of giving in when his mother’s probation officer ran in screaming about the Manor being on fire.

And, of course, since they never left, Pansy and Blasie were there for that too.

They freaked out, according to Theo, and gathered up as many people as they could to storm the Manor ruins.

Every last one of his Slytherins came. Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Daphne (and Astoria), _and_ Greg. If that isn’t enough to shock him, the others that came certainly are. Cho Chang, the girl he handed off so many students to, hoping she’d be able to get them somewhere safe. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, the Gryffindor couple he saved from the Carrow’s _crico_ s. Hermione Granger, even though he’s never been anything but awful to her. Ginevra Weasley, because apparently she and Pansy are _friends_ now. Ron Weasley came, even if it was just because his girlfriend and his sister were there. And since two thirds of the Golden Trio were present, Harry _fucking_ Potter came. Even little Luna. His sweet, lovely, _darling_ little cousin came.

All for him. 

In hopes of finding some clue to where he went, if he was alive, if he offed himself or was killed when no one was looking.

The lot of them came for three days straight.

And all they could find was ash.

Chang, Finnegan, Thomas and Greg stopped coming after the first day. On the second day the search party lost the Greengrass sisters. 

On the third and final day, Pansy broke down. Crying and screaming, demanding he come out from wherever the hell he was. To Draco’s surprise, Ginevra Weasley and Hermione Granger were the ones to comfort Pansy. 

“Blaise would’ve done it, but he was torn up, Draco. Shaking like a leaf, I’ve never seen him so fucked up. Ron and I had to help him walk, and if Harry hadn’t been there I don’t know what Luna would’ve done. I didn’t think she could cry until that day.”

Draco stares into his half drunk tea, regret and guilt washing over him in waves of shame that the ocean can’t calm.

“W-what happened? Pans and Blaise...are they-”

They’re running businesses now.

After their respective melt downs, Granger gave them each a week to grieve. And then, on the third Sunday that Kingsley came to visit, Granger appeared at Pansy’s and Blaise’s apartment like some sort of wraith.

“It was, by far, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.” Theo tells him.

And Draco has to admit, the idea of _Hermione Granger,_ showing up at his doorstep at eight in the morning, forcing him to get dressed and then manhandling him through a floo _does_ strike fear into his heart. 

Theo, hiding from her in Pansy’s shoe closet, witnessed the whole thing. Every bit of yelling (from Granger) and protesting (from Pansy and Blaise). He waited until the three of them were gone to step out, and then had to wait four whole hours before Granger let Blaise and Pansy return, business models and a three week plan in their hands.

As of right now, Pansy is currently running her own clothing line, with fashion shows all over the world, using the Parkinson fortune for what she considers to be ‘good’.

Blaise, the bastard, finally got to partner with a plant shop and focus on wizarding pharmaceuticals. 

Apparently, with the help of one Hermione Granger, they’ve been making waves in their respective fields. Pansy provides all the clothing for Astoria’s orphanage, has charity balls to get donations for various war retributions. Blaise is working with both Neville Longbottom, Granger, _and_ Potter to get Wolfsbane legalized. They’re planning on forcing whoever wins the Minister seat to make dispensaries for werewolves, where they can get their potion for free and pay a reduced fee for any therapy that might be needed.

“You lot certainly have been...busy.” Draco says.

The sun has started going down by now, casting a lovely golden glow over the living room, somehow making Theo’s eyes more vibrant.

“And you haven’t?”

No, not really. 

In all honesty, rebuilding a house isn’t that drastic in retrospect to what his friends have been off doing. In a way it suits them. Draco, once the head of the pack, the one they all listened to and followed, being left in the dust by his magnificent friends. 

Because honesty seems to be working for him lately, Draco starts to tell Theo just that.

“Not really, I mean, I haven’t done anything significant-”

“That’s not being true, Mister Draco!”

Draco and Theo both glance over to see Misty walk in, carrying Salem like he’s a log instead of a Kneazle. 

“Misty, love, you didn’t even hear the conversation.”

“Elves be having big ears for a _reason,_ Mister Draco. Take this!” She thrusts Salem into Draco’s lap, “He’s been into my pothos again! He is being a bad Salem!” She turns to Theo with a little huff, keeping her eyes on him as she makes her way to her shell chair.

For some reason, Misty’s gaze unnerves Theo.

“Mister Draco is being a liar!”

“Misty!”

“He _is!_ When Mister Draco was coming to the Prynne House, it was all broken down and on the verge of collapsing! If he hadn’t given the house a reason to be going on, it would’ve gotten _really_ violent, sir! But Mister Draco be saving the house! And Salem! _And_ Misty! He is being loved by the shopkeepers and they were _never_ smiling during the war, sir! Not even when Master and Mistress were going out! He is making the people happy, sir! You must believe Misty!”

“Oh I believe you,” Theo smiles, “Draco’s always had a nasty habit of belittling the good things he does. All he ever wanted to talk about in school was what his _father_ had done.”

Misty’s face darkens instantly. “We do not be talking of that bad man here.”

“You told her?”

Draco shrugs, “I tell her everything.”

Theo decides to fact check him on this, asking Misty a million questions since Draco is _not_ a reliable source of information. He thinks it’s total bullshit, but Misty gets a kick out of telling Theo every little development in his life, so he zones out, wondering if he should owl his friends.

He’ll have to get an owl to do that, though. Unless he asks Kingsley to deliver his mail, but he’s trying to bully Kingsley into running for Minister at the moment, so maybe mail should be a second priority.

Merlin, what would he even say?

_Sorry for running away again? Sorry for completely falling off the face of the Earth?_

Maybe something simple like: _Floo to the Prynne House._

But that sounds a little creepy, plus Blaise always checks addresses and Draco doubts that his friend would want to visit a house that’s on record as destroyed with possible ghosts. The second that Kingsley stops finding that joke funny Draco’s making him change it.

He should probably apologize at least once. Maybe something like:

_Sorry you thought I was dead, funnily enough, I’m not! Sorry also for abandoning you, disappearing, taking the Mark, my general negative impact upon your life, really._

Somehow he doesn’t think that’ll go over well either. 

“-really, darling, he’s an idiot! Did he ever tell you about the time in sixth year when-”

“Alright!” Draco shouts, hoping to everything that Theo wasn’t planning on telling Misty about the time he got so sleep deprived he wore Pansy’s skirt for an entire hour. “That’s enough! Didn’t you come here for business?”

“My business got put on hold the second I saw my friend that’s supposedly dead.”

Okay, that’s fair. But still: “It’s time for Misty and I to make dinner!”

“You cook now?!”

“He does, Mister Theo! Misty is teaching him!”

“And...and it’s not poisonous-”

“For Merlin’s sake! I’ve never poisoned anyone!” Theo gives him a look. “Unintentionally, I’ve never poisoned someone unintentionally.”

“What about-”

“That thing with Vince was entirely his own fault! Are you staying for dinner or not?”

Theo chuckles at him, but he does end up staying for dinner. Somehow, Draco blames it completely on Misty, he even ends up staying the night.

The second he sees the guest bedrooms he bursts out laughing. “Really? It’s like you made Blaise and Pans their own rooms.”

“Shut up.”

Theo turns around to look at him, smiling like Draco’s never seen him smiling before. “Draco...it’s...it’s really good to see you, to know you're alive and all that. You seem...happy. I don’t think you’ve ever been happy before.”

“I haven’t.” Draco tells him quietly. “Not like this.”

Theo claps him on the shoulder. After a moment he pulls Draco in for another hug. Chest to chest, arms around his waist, something that he’s never been comfortable with. And yet, it feels nice. Warm. Safe.

A bit like the ocean, actually.

“Goodnight, Theo.”

“Goodnight.”

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Theo finds him the next morning when he’s reading. Sunlight streams through the curtains in his little canopy out in the back, blanketing him in an early morning glow. The ocean is calm today. Breezes drape over his shoulder, lazily sending the smell of the sea to mix with his morning coffee.

“I have to actually work today.” Theo says, disrupting his quiet time and plopping on the short side of the L-shaped couch. “You should come with me.”

“No.”

“Draco-”

“I have lunch in a few hours with some friends, I can’t miss it or they’ll hunt me down and smother me.”

“I didn’t know you and Pansy were still in touch.”

“We’re not.” Draco sets his coffee, and his copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, down, turning to face his friend. “And that’s something we need to talk about.”

Theo’s smile falls from his face. “You don’t want me to tell them.”

“Theo-”

“What the _fuck,_ Draco? They haven’t seen you since your trial in _March!_ And when was the last time they spoke to you, hm? Let me guess- _seventh fucking year!_ It’s been nearly _eight months!_ Eight _fucking months_ since your _best friends_ talked to you! Not to mention that you’ve been _dead_ for three of those fucking months, have you any _idea_ what that’s done to them?!”

“Theo, I’m not-”

“I don’t care! You weren’t there! You didn’t go through what we did-you don’t know what we’ve been through these past few months and you-you don’t even _care!”_

“Of course I care!”

“You don’t bloody show it!” Theo seethes. He stands, wildly gesturing with his hands. “You _never_ should’ve taken that fucking Mark. Never should’ve been apart of that _stupid fucking war._ We were _kids,_ Draco! Children! Not fucking soldiers!”

“You think I had a choice?” Draco yells back. “You think I _wanted this?! He was going to kill my mother!_ He threatened _all_ of you! Mum! Pans! Blaise! Luna! _And_ you! If I hadn’t taken the Mark you’re father would’ve made you take it! If I wasn’t in the raids Luna would’ve _died, Theo!_ Died! Of course I didn’t want to fucking fight in that _bullshit,_ but I wasn’t going to let him hurt the people I care about either!”

“You should’ve.” Theo whispers.

Draco swallows, his anger leaving him in one singular ocean breeze that has him feeling more like a block of ice. “What?”

“You should’ve let him hurt us.” Theo repeats, his voice so quiet Draco can barely hear it. “I would’ve taken the Mark if it meant you didn’t have to do it alone.”

Draco gasps. He takes two steps between them, not entirely sure when he even stood up, closing the distance and gripping Theo’s arms rather harshly. “No you don’t. You _don’t,_ Theo. I couldn’t live with myself if he got to all of you. It’s-it’s bad enough that Greg and Vince-”

“I know.” Theo huffs out. He’s shaking all over, hanging his head so it rests on Draco’s chest. “I know….I couldn’t...we don’t have the stomach for that shit. Well, maybe Pans and Blaise could handle the murder but-but not the other stuff I just….Draco, we’ve missed you so much. You were always there. Ordering us around, even when we hated it we looked to you. You just...no one else did what you did. You looked after Vince when his mum died, Greg tells us all the time that you wouldn’t let him participate in the worst of it all, even if his father threatened you. No one’s ever gotten Pansy like you do, and Blaise...he’s never respected anyone like he respects you. We’ve been lost, Draco. We _need_ you, just as much as you need us. Please, _please,_ just let me tell them.”

He frees his arms, using the leverage to pull Draco close again and suddenly Draco understands the hugs. 

Theo’s never had a parental figure. Not really. His mum died when he was five, and his dad never cared about him. Not until he tried to force Theo to take the Mark and Draco stood in his way. Theo’s never had someone to look out for him until Draco got nosey and demanded the boy tell him why, exactly, he was all bandaged up at the beginning of fourth year. Draco was probably the first person to care about Theo, the first to offer him friends and freedom and something to live for.

Draco is to Theo what Misty is to Draco.

Someone to care about, to protect, to align with no matter what. Someone to look to when things get bad, someone who knows limits and expectations and still offers happiness so sweet it leaves a sour aftertaste. 

Draco raises his arms slowly. His left one wraps around Theo’s waist, the right one comes up so he can cradle Theo’s head.

“I can’t, Theo. No-no, _Theo,_ listen to me. They’re starting to get their lives figured out. If I go back now, Greg will break down all over again. He needs time to heal. Luna’s always been good about figuring out the truth, she probably knows I’m alive and well from the clouds or something.” Theo laughs, all shaky and wet. “And Pansy...her and Blaise...I need time for them. I don’t know how to apologize, much less how to make it better. I need _time,_ Theo. They need time. Just...wait a bit, okay? We’ll tell them when it’s right.”

Theo’s silent for a long time, but it’s okay. Draco just stands there and holds him, hoping it’s enough of an apology that his friend won’t hate him forever.

“You’re a coward for this.” He says finally.

“I know.”

“But...I’ll wait. I won’t say anything until you tell me to.”

“Thanks.”

Theo huffs, retracting himself from the awkwardly long hug and fixing him with a look that’s ruined by the tear marks on his cheeks. “You’re not welcome.”

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


“And he’s just going to let it go?” Carla asks later at lunch.

June watches eagerly from her side, mouth half stuffed with a bagel. Draco doesn’t know what’s worse, her abhorrent table manners or Howie’s look of betrayal to his left.

“You let someone enter the house?!”

“Yes, Howie, we’ve been over this.” Carla sighs, “Answer the question, Draco.”

“I think he is? I’m not really sure, actually. Slytherins are good liars, and while I’ve always been able to tell, he did give himself a loophole.”

“A loophole?” June asks, shoving chips in Howie’s face so he’ll shut up about the house.

“Yes. He said he wouldn’t _tell_ them, but that doesn't mean he can’t show them.”

“Ah, like charades.”

Carla frowns, “Try a Pensive, love.”

“What’s a Pensive?”

Draco and Carla share matching horrified expressions before they turn back to her.

Howie, with his mouth full of food, beats them to it. “Your sister really didn’t teach you anything, did she?”

June shrugs. “She was focused on her Mastery. And mum and dad certainly didn’t know!”

“A Pensive,” Carla says, glaring at Howie, “Is something wizard’s use to look at memories.”

“Oh!” June’s face drops. “Oh. So he could _show_ them, show them. Well...that’s not very fair at all.”

“Slytherins always play dirty.” Draco mummers dryly, taking a sip of his tea. 

Carla gives him one of her long searching looks, then abruptly turns to Howie. “Howie, sir, didn’t you say you were thinking about redoing the shop?”

“Hm? Oh yes! Draco actually gave me the idea. It’s high time the shop got a facelift! She’s been the same for twenty years now! I have a plan, of course, I’ve just got to wait until the August Rush is over so I can start gathering the funds!”

“What happened to your savings?” June asks.

“Ah, poor things got depleted after the war. Gave most of it to charity, and you remember how we had to pay for those nasty Ministry inspections. Took out half of my stock, _and_ they didn’t replace anything, the dirty buggers.”

“I can pay for it.”

Three heads turn to look at him. A bit of bagel falls out of June’s mouth.

“What?”

“Honestly, June!” Draco sighs, shoving a napkin in her general direction. “Your chin, it’s covered in cream cheese.”

“Oh! Sorry...”

“Can we get back to what _you,”_ Carla points at him, “just said?”

“What? I have the money for it.”

“Draco,” Howie protests, “I can’t just let you-”

“You _can_ and you _should._ I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, and I never would’ve finished the house without you. Call it a ‘thank you’ present, or an investment if you want to, but I really don’t mind.”

“I...I could be okay with an investment.” Howie says, frowning. “A debt investment, maybe?”

“What? No. That’s like me loaning you the money, Howie. I won’t allow you to pay it back.”

“A partnership?”

“Can’t you just take a donation?”

“You won’t be saying that when I tell you how much I need.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

“Ten thousand gallons.”

“Done.” Draco says. He already has his wand out, summoning a check. 

Howie hastily grabs his wand arm, all gentle and grandfather-like. “Now, Draco. Let’s think about this. You can’t just _give_ anyone money like that!”

“But it’s not just anyone.” Draco says. He’s a bit confused as to why they aren’t getting this. Does he have to spell it out for them? “For Merlin’s sake…” He sighs, setting his wand down and glaring at all three of them.

They gulp. Good, that means he’s still got it.

“Look, I get that you two-” He points to Howie and June. “-are clearly Hufflepuffs, and _you-”_ He points to Carla. “-might just be a Ravenclaw, so you clearly don’t get it.”

“Hufflepuff?” June asks.

“It’s a Hogwarts thing.” Carla whispers.

Draco continues like he didn’t hear them at all, “Slytherins work in trades, okay? Carla, you cleared something in me that I didn’t know was blocked. Be it magic, emotional, or physical. I don’t know and I don’t care, but what I _do_ know is that you’ve become my friend. I wouldn’t have any friends if it weren’t for you and Mrs. Daisy. Well, aside from Misty, of course, but that’s not the point.” He turns to June. “You, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, are the worst potion maker I’ve ever encountered. And you’ve _still_ helped me with Severus’s death. If it had been anyone else in the apochathary that day I would’ve run out the store the second I could- but it was _you,_ and _you_ opened up first and I’ve been stuck with you ever since.” 

Finally, in his big speech, he turns to Howie. “My house would literally be barren if it weren’t for you and your shop. In a weird way, you and Mrs. Alice are the entire reason I get to have a home. You in particular have gotten me to trust- dare I even say _like-_ adults again. The three of you have given me, a slimy Slytherin, things I can’t pay back. You could take all of my money and it still wouldn’t be enough. So let me help you with your shop.”

Howie and June are near tears by the time he stops ranting. Thankfully, Carla just seems fondly exasperated. 

“You could’ve just said you won’t take no for an answer.”

“It wouldn’t have enough sentimental for those two.” 

Carla huffs out a little laugh, “Write your damn check, Draco.”

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Howie does, against Draco’s many protests, make him partner.

Of course, he doesn’t realize this until Friday, when he makes his way into June’s shop and finds himself stopping in the middle of Yellow Brick Rd., staring up at Howie’s sign.

It looks just like it always does, except, instead of reading _Howie’s Home Improvements,_ it reads _Howie’s Home Improvements (says thank you to Partner Draco!)_.

Draco nearly has a heart attack as he rushes to the front door.

“Howie! Howie _what is that sign out front?!”_

Howie emerges from behind the counter, a big smile on his jolley face. He’s clad in a red suit shirt and white overalls. Draco realizes that the man looks _exactly_ like that muggle Santa Claus character. Well, maybe Santa Claus if the character’s beard wasn't so bloody long.

“Do you like it? I thought it was appropriate to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what? I _told_ you I wasn’t going to be a partner- I don’t know _anything_ about building houses!”

“You literally rebuilt the Prynne House, and I recall Misty mentioning that you built her a greenhouse?”

“That’s-” Draco frowns. “That’s different!”

“Is it? Because it certainly seems like house building to me! And anyways, I went to Obsidian and spoke to a goblin named Griphook? He seemed _very_ pleased that I wanted to make you a partner! Such a helpful goblin, he even gave me this contract for you to read!”

He rummaged around the cash register for a bit, pulling out a paper that Draco hastily looks over.

Sure enough, Griphook has added a clause that Draco _will_ be speaking to him about.

_Should A Goblin Friend donate a monetary value that accumulates to an amount greater than five thousand gallons, they will be entitled to partnership investment, or, should the owner request, particle ownership of Howie’s Home Improvements._

“But I don’t _want_ to be a partner!” Draco groans, “And I will not- _will not, Howie-_ claim particle ownership.”

“Ah! Mister Griphook told me you’d say this. Is that the reason he asked me to go ahead and offer it to you?”

_“You offered me half of your store?!”_

Howie tilts his head to the side. “Is that what I did?”

Fucking goblins. “Howie...what Griphook had you do was essentially give me an ultimatum. I either accept the partnership or become a particle owner of your shop. Think of it like this, a partnership investment means I share a percentage of whatever gains or losses you make. But as a particle _owner,_ I _own_ a part of your store. It’s not dabbling in your stocks, it’s having a direct hand in how things are run.”

“But is that really so bad? You clearly know more about business than I do.”

Draco sighs, “Yes it’s _bad._ It means I could completely change your favorite parts of your own store!”

“But you won’t.”

“Of course I won’t!” Draco sighs, looking over the contract again and trying to see the positives here. Sure, he wants nothing to do with business because that’s what his father wanted him to do, but if he were to become a partner….well, it would mean being able to help Howie out if he got into financial trouble, all because it would be his responsibility to. That _does_ seem like a pretty good way to pay him back for all he’s done for Draco. 

“Fine, _fine._ I’ll be your partner-but I _will_ be talking to Griphook about this.”

Howie just smiles at him. “Keep the paper if you’d like! Mister Griphook said you’d like to have your own copy, oh! Tell June ‘hello’ for me!”

Draco’s still sulking five minutes later when he walks into June’s shop.

“I take it Howie told you the good news?” 

Draco glares at her. “Is your cauldron ready?”

June gulps.

They set up shop in the back of the apothecary, right next to a window so June can see when customers come in. Draco’s managed to get her on third year potions, thank Merlin. Today they’re brewing Grinding Potion, one of Draco’s old favorites. He would’ve failed his OWLs without it.

“Yes, but what does it _do?”_ June asks.

“Think of it as a revitalizing potion. It essentially gives you a few weeks of extra motive, energy, and endurance.”

“Oh! So it’s like...like what you take when you have something difficult to do at work.”

Draco gives her a look, but she’s not necessarily wrong. “Sure.”

They work for a few more hours, interrupted by customers, but not many. Weird, considering that they’re in the middle of the notorious August School Rush.

“It’s because everyone prefers to go to Diagon.” June tells him. “We’re not _bad_ shop owners, but Diagon is what’s recommended. I’m not experienced enough in potions, hell, I barely know the good ingredients from the bad ones. Carla says she doesn’t count, people like Sal is a little _too_ aggressive with his wands, and the only pet shop we have down here is ran by Charles- you know? Leopard Print Guy? Sure, the quill shops are popular, but once you’re in Diagon Alley, why would you go somewhere else?”

Draco frowns. “Customer Loyalty?”

June snorts, and yeah, Draco gets it. There are very few shops left that he’s loyal too.

Howie’s is one of them, because the man is too honest for his own good and it’s annoyingly endearing. June’s shop, but only because he’s been the one teaching her. In all honesty, he barely goes to see Carla at work. Why would he? All of his personal hygiene products are set up to be ordered bi-monthly. 

Mrs. Daisy’s shop goes without saying. Draco’s fairly positive that her little bakery is the most popular shop on Yellow Brick Rd.

“Well,” Draco says, stirring the pot in more ways than one, “I’m Howie’s partner now, and that means I’m invested in the well being of his store.”

June laughs. “How terrifying.”

Draco’s not sure if she’s talking about him or the tell-tale sound of Willie descending upon them. 

  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Theo stops by again, exactly two weeks apart from seeing Draco for the first time. He finds Draco in Mrs. Daisy’s shop, in his usual counter seat, head bent over _several_ papers, all dedicated to various shops on Yellow Brick Rd.

He’s not really sure how he managed to get in his current position, but here he is. 

Talking with Griphook didn't do anything to help, as the goblin was more concerned about investments that would help Draco's bank account than listening to what Draco did and didn't want to do. Since he begrudgingly accepted Howie’s partnership offer, Carla decided it would be fun to offer him a sort of partnership in which he helps her decide on popular scents, products, and marketing methods in return for discounted products and free samples of anything new that looks interesting.

She somehow bullied him into accepting June’s offer, the only one on his long list that made any semblance of sense.

He’s already with her every Friday, already teaching her things he considers to be basic, so why _not_ agree to be her co-owner? It’s a weird situation, because Draco _refuses_ to admit that he’s co-owning an apothecary, but he’s also there three days a week now, has managed to get June in contact with good ingredient sellers, and has been put on a fast track to a Potions Mastery thanks to Carla’s surprising intimidation factors. 

The story goes that Carla showed up at June’s shop during one of Draco’s teaching sessions, slammed a piece of parchment in front of his face, and then confiscated his wand until it was filled out. She didn’t tell him what it was for, what she was going to do with it, but all of it was about the art of potion making, how long he’s been brewing, and small, obvious details about him. In all honesty, he thought nothing of it. Thought it was some sort of weird qualification to give to the people who are still a little skeptical of him.

And then Carla barged into their weekly lunch an hour late with a letter about Draco’s test date. 

A test for a Mastery Position, on November 13th. 

The only thing Draco could weasel out of her was that she had ‘a friend’ in the Ministry who supported Draco. And _that_ is killing him. He wants to know _how_ she did it, what she said, if she had to threaten anyone.

Afterall, despite his weird new place in the world, he’s still an ex-Death Eater with _plenty_ of people vying to see him makeout with a Dementor. 

Not that his social standing stopped anyone from approaching him with shop-related issues.

He was fine with just June, Carla, and Howie. Really! Thought no one else even _liked_ him enough to seek his aid with their financial matters, and yet.

Mrs. Daisy was the fourth person to demand his help. She cornered him on Monday, slapped a badge on his chest that reads _‘official taste tester’_ and told him he was either helping her with paperwork or becoming an employee. Call him antisocial, but paperwork is _much_ more appealing than dealing with the public.

Plus, his new ‘title’, if he can call it that, gives Mrs. Daisy a _reason_ to keep him from paying. Not that she’s ever needed one, but it makes Draco feel less guilty.

It was under Mrs. Daisy’s deceivingly warm smile that other shop keepers approached him. 

Alice, the woodshop owner, asked for help in her displays. The Leopard Print Guy, Charles, asked how to stop scaring customers away. Plant shop owners wanted to know how to contact more nurseries, how to obtain rare plants. Those beauty shop workers that Draco still doesn’t like wanted to know how to appeal to more people. Even the _bookshops_ asked for accounting help.

They didn’t come to him while he was capable of making reasonable decisions. No, they cornered him while he was in the middle of his first cup of coffee, half asleep, and lured into a false sense of security provided by Mrs. Daisy’s freshly baked scones.

So of course he ended up saying ‘yes.’

Which leaves him sitting in Mrs. Daisy’s bakery, head bent of a pile of papers, on his third cup of coffee, with Theo breathing down his neck.

“Is there a reason you’re working with most of the stores here?”

Draco hum noncommitedly, not looking up from his pile. 

“Right. Are you going to _tell_ me that reason?”

Draco hums again, Theo sighs. “Great. I come to tell you that my liquor store here is failing and you’re neck deep in paperwork.”

Now _that_ makes Draco snap his head up. “You’re business is the liquor store? The one with the guy who doesn’t like me?”

“He doesn’t like anyone, Dearie.” Mrs. Daisy offers.

Theo nods his agreement. “He’s a bit of a...tough person to manage. Not very agreeable, not kind, and _certainly_ not fond of his boss being younger than him. At least he’s thankful that he’s not dealing with my father anymore.”

Right. Theo’s dead father. The one that owned _several_ franchises…franchises that Theo inherited….“Wanna help me with my papers?”

“I was going to talk you into clubbing with me, actually.”

Draco’s eyebrows skyrocket. He’s even more confused when Mrs. Daisy starts smiling. “OH! Theodore, that’s such a lovely idea! Draco here wouldn’t come out of the house at all if his friends didn’t make him! Why, a night out on the town could be _exactly_ what he needs to loosen him up!”

“I’m loose!” Draco protests.

Theo sneers at him, “Are you?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me, Dearie, what do you consider to be your pastimes?”

“Well.” Draco blinks. “I read a lot, help Misty with the plants, take care of Salem, meet up for brunch, and have suddenly found myself swamped by paperwork.”

Theo and Mrs. Daisy exchange a frown.

“Dearie,” Mrs. Daisy starts gently. Never a good sign where Draco’s concerned. “Those are things that _I_ might consider _my_ pastimes.”

“So?”

“I’m sixty seven.”

“And?”

“And you’re eighteen.” Theo says, like Draco needs reminding. “No offense to you, Madam, but Draco! You’re barely a young adult! You shouldn’t be acting like-” He spares a glance to Mrs. Daisy, quickly choosing a new set of words. “Like a burned out Ministry employee!”

“It’s okay to say he’s acting like an old person. I won’t take offense, hon.”

“I do _not_ act like an old person!” Draco protests, “And I’m _certainly_ no Ministry Employee!”

Mrs. Daisy’s friendly face falls into a stern frown. “You do too act that way! You’re far too young to forgo a night of getting smashed! Why, when I’m missing _several_ nights from _my_ time as an eighteen year old. My girls and I had this ritual, you see. We’d get all dolled up, go out to the taverns, find some handsome young man, and then-”

“What’s she’s saying,” Theo interrupts with a bit of pink on his cheeks. “Is that you deserve a night out. That you’ll be getting with me, this weekend.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’ Draco.”

“I have Howie’s renovation plans to fix! We have to start in a week or we won’t make it in time for the Holiday break!”

“Leave Howard to me.” Mrs. Daisy says. The smile on her face sends a shiver up Draco’s spine.

“S-still! I can’t just _abandon_ Misty.”

“Misty is probably dying to get rid of you for a night or two.” Theo tells him. “She told me that you interrupt her bath schedule.”

“I do not! And for the record, _taking five hour baths is not healthy!”_

“Oh Dearie.” Mrs. Daisy sighs, “That’s completely normal for women over thirty.”

Theo’s momentarily rattled enough to stare at the woman with Draco’s shared shock, _“Five hours?_ Really? But the pruning-no. Nevermind, that’s not the point. The _point.”_ He turns back to Draco with a scowl, “Is that you either come willingly or I will contact Misty to help me with your kidnapping.”

“I can’t be kidnapped if I’m supposedly an old man.”

Theo laughs a bit at Draco’s bitter tone. “A trade then. I help you with your stack, you go clubbing with me on Friday _and_ Saturday.” 

Draco eyes Theo, then eyes the papers that seem to grow every day. He looks once to Mrs. Daisy, but she’s more on board with Theo’s plan than his own, so eventually he sighs and tosses half the stack in front of Theo. “This better be worth it.”

  
  
  
  


\----------

  
  
  


It is, in the end, definitely not worth it.

“Are you _sure_ I should go like this?”

“Absolutely.” Theo says right as Misty nods a near violent ‘yes’.

Draco stands in front of his full length mirror in the bathroom, rechecking his appearance because, quite frankly, it’s _uncomfortable._ The pants are _far_ too tight. They’re _leather_ for Merlin’s sake, clinging to his thighs, his calves, even his butt that’s barely back to the shape it was in before his starvation period. Unlike his leggings that he’s come to love, these pants feel more like they’re sucking the life out of his legs, not protecting them with admittedly tight armor. His shoes, a pair of something that Theo calls ‘Doc Martens’ are just as uncomfortable, squeezing his toes and difficult to glide around in.

And his shirt! Theo’s gone and forced him into a short-sleeve, silk button down, with not one, but _three_ of the top buttons undone. It’s close to showing his entire nipples! That _can’t_ bode well. Particle nudity? Combined with his Dark Mark? 

No, it’s not going to end well at all.

To top his entire outfit off, Theo insists on jewelry and makeup. 

He forces a single necklace on Draco, the long one with a matching gem to Misty’s ocean necklace, a bracelet that apparently wards against things in his drink, and a ring to confuse anyone who gives him any unwanted attention. Smart, on Theo’s part, but it still makes Draco feel weird.

A feeling that intensifies when Theo starts throwing beauty products on him.

“This is ridiculous!”

“Is not! Blaise says it’s entirely natural for men to wear makeup!”

“You _hate_ makeup!”

“That’s before Pansy got a hold of me.” Theo yells, trapping Draco with a body bind when he’s not looking.

What their little argument results in is Draco magically forced to stand still while Theo covers his scars and his Dark Mark in magical makeup that managed to wipe the entire slate clean. Or that’s his understanding until Theo leaves the scar on his face alone. 

“What?” He says to Draco’s narrowed eyes. “The scar is cool! It adds an air of _mystery.”_

Airs of mystery can bite his ass for all Draco cares. Unfortunately, Theo has him in a bind so he can’t voice this opinion, merely glare ever so slightly as his friend applies mascara and lip gloss. 

He’s finally released so Theo can pick apart his hair, a feat that’s constantly interrupted by the ocean’s winds coming through the window. 

It’s a repeating pattern. Theo braids Draco’s hair, the ocean messes it up. Theo puts his hair in a bun, the ocean flings the hair-tie out of Draco’s hair. Theo combs through Draco’s hair, the ocean blows the straight locks until they’re wavy once more.

Eventually Theo just sighs and holds his hands up. “Alright, alright. Wind blown look it is.”

That seems to appease the ocean, while Draco finds his stomach suddenly in knots.

“Theo...are you _sure_ about this?”

“Yep. Unless you’re going to back out of a trade.”

Draco glares at him, glares at his own, admittedly, almost attractive reflection in the mirror, and then sighs.

Honestly. He’s probably making a big deal out of it. It’s just _one_ wizard’s club. It’s not even _in_ Britain, it’s in a big city in Italy, where very few people know and care about him.

Theo has to aparate them there so the Ministry doesn’t know about Draco’s probably illegal trip to another country, and Draco uses the time to persuade himself that this is going to be perfectly fine.

Theo’s with him, Theo would never allow anything to happen to him, Theo will _protect_ him if anyone starts to give him shit. It’s him, his friend, uncomfortable clothing, and one Italian club. The latter two facts make him nervous beyond belief, but at least he won’t be doing this alone.

He’s got Theo.

Theo, who abandons him at the bar after three shots, for a set of long legs and a pretty smile.

Draco sighs into his drink. 

He _knew_ he should’ve said no. This is clearly a giant mistake. Theo’s revenge for not letting him tell Pansy and Blaise. Perhaps even cosmic karma for all the good that’s been seeping into his life lately. 

What was that thing Severus used to say all the time? Something about-

“Can I buy you another?”

Draco looks up from attempting to glare a hole into the bartop. His first thought is that the man is way too pretty to be talking to _him._

Tall, tan, with dark messy hair and weirdly blue eyes. A smile that’s a little coy, a little hopeful. Straight teeth, _good_ teeth. Cleanly shaven beard, no glasses, no jewelry, but his shirt is tight enough for Draco to appreciate the muscles beneath, pants of equal nature. So tight Draco can just barely make out a slight bulge.

Draco’s second thought is filled with mortification because he’s _ogling this fine man_ and the man is _watching him do it._

“My cup isn’t empty.”

“Not yet, but it might be soon.”

His voice is deep, filled with an alluring accent, less _speaking_ and more allowing words to drip from his tongue like honey. Draco swallows, watching the way the man’s muscles move as he takes the seat next to Draco’s own. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

“I suppose I will.”

It takes a _lot_ of restraint to keep from swallowing the rest of his drink right there.

And okay, Draco knows he has a type by now. For Merlin’s sake, he figured that out when he was fourteen and watching Victor Krum climb out of a frozen lake in a conveniently tight suit. He’s never had an aversion to women, partly because his most looming goal for the longest time was either not dying or, when he turned sixteen, figuring out how the hell he was going to produce an heir with a girl who didn’t necessarily like him. 

Or the biggest looming threat of all; one snake faced Dark Lord. 

It’s not that he hates women, finds them distasteful, for even directly avoids them. Vaginas just terrify him.

Men, for one, don’t have vaginas. Just bouts of insanity, rage, and all consuming one-mindedness. And Draco, as he is a man, can handle just about all of those. In fact, as a survivor of the Dark Lord, as Carla insists he calls it, Draco even considers himself an _expert_ in the field of dealing with insane, singularly-goal driven, maddeningly angry men. 

That being said, he still has a type. One that a skinny, old, no-nose, strangely pale Dark Lord doesn't fit into.

His type is wildly different. He doesn't usually care about height, but he does like his men tan. With nice smiles and enough muscle to end his life if they really want to. For no reason whatsoever, his wet dreams have always included laughter and glowing green eyes. He likes it when a man has witty comebacks, but can be respectful. When they laugh just as loudly as they moan. When they can hold both Draco’s level of conversation and his sexual desires.

He also likes it when they buy him drinks.

Which is exactly what the man does.

At first it’s one drink, and that somehow leads to five. A conversation full of jokes somehow turns sensual, pure comedy into something a little more heavy. Distance into a hand on his thigh. Joyful eyes into heavily lidded orbes. An innocent smile into a filthy one.

He checks on Theo before he says ‘yes’, finding his supposed kidnapper for the evening thoroughly invested in a group of girls with brown hair and brown eyes. And then all he can say _is_ the word yes.

When the man asks for a private space, when hands start wandering over him, when he finds himself apparated into a small bedroom, when his knees hit the back of bed, when the man consumes him from above.

It’s _yes_ to the feeling, _yes_ to hands in his hair, _yes_ to the rough treatment, _yes_ to the kisses the man hungrily leaves on his body.

His entire world is filled with the word ‘yes’, something he likens to a hazy cloud of pink. To lust rushing through his veins, to the areas he’s thinking with instead of his brain. 

The feeling is so intense he can’t even remember _why_ he was opposed to going out in the first place.

“Can I?” The man asks, hands hovering just above the button on Draco’s ridiculous pants.

“Yes.”

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it got saucy! Oh no! fair warning, I love the idea of Draco in clubs, but also I love the idea of Theo ebing a massive nerd, and then turning and shaking his ass in the club (also, they're not going to be together, don't worry)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! we're off on another one! i'll be posting the second chapter shortly after this one! let me know if you like it, also, if you love Howie just wait until you meet Mrs. Daisy.


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